


Wilderness of Mirrors

by Shadowheartdesigns (shadowkitten)



Series: Smoke and Mirrors [3]
Category: Princess Principal (Anime)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Damsels in Distress, Escape, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mostly offscreen - Freeform, Non-Explicit Sex, Possible Character Death, Rescue, Romance, Some "damsels" rescue themselves, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkitten/pseuds/Shadowheartdesigns
Summary: When Marilla is kidnapped, Chise and Beatrice return to London to rescue her.  They find themselves enmeshed in a conspiracy that reaches across to disturb the peace of Casablanca, and threatens to destroy Team White Pigeon forever.





	1. A Day In The Life

**Author's Note:**

> Follows the (first, she says optimistically) anime series. Also follows on from my previous story Ticklish Tipplers. If you have not, or choose not to, read that story, the main take-away is that Dorothy and Beatrice enter a romantic relationship on the airship journey from London to Casablanca. This is an established, but secret, relationship as this story opens.  
> The Game of Mission, Photo Dramas, and any future anime, manga, or OVA continuations will not be in continuity to this story, short of happy fortune.  
> This story has the potential to go to some dark, brutal places. It isn't all sweetness and light, but it also isn't all grim darkness.  
> Aside from various minor characters of each gender invented on the fly as needed to fill in scenes and the like, there is one original female character that plays a somewhat major role in a couple of chapters.

It always happens this way. She's standing in the rain. Her hair is matted down. her dress is soaked. Her eyes are red and puffy. Her cheeks are wet. Not all from the rain.

She moves forward. She isn't sure what direction she's moving. Or if she is running or walking. Sometimes it seems like she is standing still and moving anyway. But she does know why she is moving.

 _She_ is there. Underneath a street lamp. The light shines on her silky dark hair, and her black-and-white laundress uniform. She doesn't see her. The rain isn't touching her.

She reaches out. Toward Cheiko. She always remains just out of reach. Never looking at her. Never saying anything. Never answering the question that booms through her consciousness.

"Why did you leave? I am sorry, please listen to me. Look at me, please."

And then a fire brigade engine roars past, alarm bells ringing furiously.

Her eyes grow dark. The ephemeral flighty lightness of dream is crushed back by the weight and feeling of reality. The softness of her nightshirt replaces the sensation-less wetness of her dream-dress.

Marilla opens her eyes with a groan. She sits up in bed, and reaches over to shut off her alarm clock. In the dim light, she squints at the face.

"Four," she mutters.

It's never enough sleep, but it has to do.

She stands up and pads over to her wardrobe. It's a small, dingy flat. She could probably afford better, but she doesn't see the need. It suits her, for now anyway.

She pulls her nightshirt off, and tosses it to the bed. She'll wear it several more nights before bothering to wash it. _Ironic,_ she tells herself.

She dresses hastily. There's no decision to make. She wears the same black-and-white uniform as everyone else. Atop the uniform. she straps a leather corset around her waist. It isn't just to give her a waspish figure, fashionable as that is in some circles. She remembers her mum being unable to move due to the agony of years of hard thankless labour. She doesn't want that.

Next comes her one little ritual. She walks over to the small table beside her bed, and moves the chair to face a parchment banner hanging on the wall. It is painted with Japanese calligraphy. She sits and looks at it.

She's never really been much for God. God's not done a whole lot for her, after all. And she doesn't really know what Cheiko believes. She vaguely knows people in Asia worship a god called Buddha. So when she clasps her hands together and raises them in front of her lips, that is to whom she directs her simple prayers.

"Luck. Prosperity. Long Life. Joy."

The little note that was included with the parchment indicated that is what the characters meant. Approximately. Cheiko claimed that her English was poor, but Marilla never had much trouble understanding what she said. And the note is quite clear. The little spelling and grammatical errors aren't any more than Marilla would expect from any of the girls at the mill. That note sits on the table beside her right now. She doesn't need to look at it any more of course, but she would never dream to throw it out.

"And please, more than any thing, I wish to see Cheiko again. Amen."

The _amen_ never seems quite right. She doesn't really know how to end a prayer to Buddha after all, but it also doesn't seem quite right to just _stop_ praying.

As always, she has very little time left for breakfast. She hurriedly warms porridge. Some days it is oat meal or creamed wheat. Sometimes, on Mondays, she even has a little meat from dinner left over.

She looks in the mirror. She's not just a laundress anymore. She is the foreman of the Little Lambs Laundry. She still gets her hands dirty of course. She's not afraid to iron with her girls, or crank the press, or hand-wash delicates, or to grab a wrench and fix a laundry machine (oh if only Becky were still here, she sighs to herself). She doesn't have the soft hands of a clerk, even if that's what she feels like these days. But still, she is _Foreman_. She has to look presentable.

Her dark hair, purplish brown depending on how the light hits it, is combed back and held in place by a frilly hair-band. Except for a signature unruly bang that hangs over her face. It's purposeful. She doesn't want to be mistaken for a princess after all. Her eyes are a light brown, and her skin is pale. Freckles dust her nose and cheeks. She smiles. She doesn't wear makeup. She doesn't see the need. It doesn't help her clean clothes, or do the ledger books. She leaves sales to the prettier girls.

And then she heads out. Down two flights of stairs. Out the front door of the boarding house. She walks with a determined pace, but doesn't run. The river is to her right. She can see, on any given day, barges or ferries or river boats. Sometimes even one of the Navy's gunboats. She never spends enough time to take in the details. There's no need. Certainly no time.

Today she sees a familiar figure up ahead; an unruly mop of blonde hair billowing behind a short girl in the familiar black-and-white laundress uniform.

"Rita!"

The girl stops and turns. The light of a streetlamp reflects off the girl's glasses. She smiles and waves.

"Morning, Miss Marilla!"

Marilla smiles, and walks up to the girl. She can see her pale blue eyes behind her glasses now. Rita's smile reaches them. They positively sparkle.

"Did you have a good night, Rita?"

"Yes ma'am."

They walk the rest of the way together, chatting about nothing.

They are always the first to arrive. Sometimes Rita is standing in front of the heavy double wooden doors, and sometimes Marilla meets her on the road, as she did today. Their routine remains the same in any case.

Marilla unlocks and opens the doors. As Rita goes into the laundry mill and lights the gas-lights, Marilla starts the engine on the lorry. She then moves around the work-floor, examining the machines. The electrical connections for the irons. The pipes and tubes. Everything is in working order today.

By now, the lorry has built up a head of steam and she is able to pull it out through the double doors. She parks it out front, and allows it to idle. With a sigh, she finds herself again wishing that _they_ were still here. Dorothea was the best driver they ever had. Marilla herself, and two of the other young women, can drive. Marilla hates driving, so she leaves pickups and deliveries to the others.

"Everything's in order, ma'am," Rita reports.

She always does, even though she knows Marilla has just spent her time going through the mill. It makes her smile.

"Thank you, Rita."

The younger girl then follows Marilla into her office, and sits on a chair beside her desk. Rita can read, if not well, and Marilla has been teaching her accounting. She also teaches her about managing a laundry mill. And most importantly, how to herd together an unruly gaggle of girls, and make them march in approximately the same direction, for an hour or two, at the same time. The analogy always makes Rita giggle.

Then, when the first of the girls show up, Marilla pulls the master lever and the building comes to life.

The great steam engines awaken, turning coal into energy and thick black smoke. Great brass flywheels and gears turn, distributing the energy into drive-shafts, and in turn the wheels, that drive the belts that make the washing machines operate.

Marilla retreats into her office. The steam engine's rumble and the hum of the gears and belts harmonizes with the song that begins as soon as the girls have arrived, and start working in earnest.

The sound pervades the building. It vibrates. Marilla feels it at the soles of her feet, and where her back touches the chair, and at the fingers that make the pen glide across the ledger-sheet. She shivers. It feels alive.

It's an uneventful day. Last night's cleaned clothes are sent out. Today's dirty clothes arrive. Rita announces a morning break, and the work comes to a halt. Marilla leaves her office, and goes to a corner shop with Rita and two young women, who are collectively thought of as the veterans of the laundry mill. They sit and drink mugs of hot, steaming tea, and eat sweet pastries.

The children use their breaks to run down to the river, or to play hop-scotch or jump rope in the empty lot across from the mill. They have only those few minutes of the workday to _be_ children after all.

The rest of the day goes in a similar way. Clean clothes go out. Dirty clothes come in. The girls and the machines sing their chorus. Marilla watches them from her office, or strolls around the workfloor. She doesn't have any problems today, and doesn't need to fill in at the irons.

Lunch-time is spent eating simple meals, mostly sandwiches, packed by the girls. Some go to the empty lot to pretend they are on a picnic. The older and more serious, sit quietly in a small room set aside for breaks. Marilla always joins them. Sometimes, she goes to the empty lot with the children.

..

As evening sets in, Marilla finds herself at her desk. The ledger book is spread open in front of her.

Numbers swim across the page. Intake of dirty laundry. Outflow of clean. Income and expense. Symbols indicating the source of revenue: Army, Home Office, the various coal mines, well-appointed members of the political and business communities ....

She idly fiddles with her pen. Her free hand drums softly on the desk top, in time with the noises of the mill. She can't focus on the ledger.

Her eyes are fixed on a photograph standing on the corner of the desk. It is of a Japanese girl. She wears what Marilla assumes to be a traditional dress: a robe with long, wide sleeves, fixed in the middle by a wide belt. Floral patterns are embroidered in both. Her short black hair is adorned by flowers. She smiles, a thin but genuine expression. A smile that seems to light the entire image, infusing it with a soft delicate beauty. Marilla feels that light radiating gently against her heart. She sighs softly. _Cheiko._

"Foreman?!"

She abruptly jolts out of her musing, dropping her pen which rolls perilously close to the edge of the desk. She looks up with surprise. Rita stands just on the other side. Her hair looks more frazzled now than in the morning. Her eyes are wide, and her expression of frustration quickly melts into one of vague embarrassment.

"Oh. Rita. Sorry, I didn't see you there. I hope you weren't waiting long?"

"Two minutes," she says bashfully.

"Ah. Sorry."

"It's okay, Miss Marilla. You wanted to know just before closing time, right?"  
  
"Oh, yes. I was going to address the girls. Thank you, Rita."

Marilla stands, with a smile. Rita blushes, but can't keep a wide grin off her face.

She follows a step behind Marilla as she walks out to the work floor.

The laundry machines were inactive. The last few of today's quota of clean clothes are being ironed and pressed. It was nearly time to close up for the night.

"Girls, attend please."

There is a rapid scurry of activity from girls unable to simply stop what task they had at that moment, and after a minute or two, the entire work force groups together, looking at Marilla. Their gazes range from exhausted attentiveness, to pride, to fierce loyalty, to outright adoration.

"Well. Tomorrow's your day off, and a well-earned one at that. You've all worked so very hard since I took over as Foreman. I just wanted you all to know that I appreciate ... no, I love each and every one of you."

There is a murmur of approbation, and a light applause. Marilla holds her hand up.

"Now, I'm not just saying this. Our profits over the last year have been nothing short of miraculous. Even after the time that our beloved benefactress Priscilla left us to our own devices, we've managed through hard work and sweat, and at times tears, to reach record levels. Needless to say, you will find this reflected in your next wages."

More applause. Happy talk and laughter ripples around the room. Every eye sparkles, every face alight with joy. Joy from higher wages of course, but as much or more from the acknowledgment and appreciation of their leader.

"Now, please be careful going home tonight, and enjoy your free day tomorrow. Just, don't enjoy it _too_ much, as we still have lots of work to do on Monday!"

This earns Marilla laughter (though admittedly some more polite than genuine) and another round of applause.

The work finishes up for the evening, and Rita and Marilla turn off the gas-lights and make certain all of the laundry machines are properly drained and shut down.

"Thanks for your hard work again, today."

Rita beams.

"Thank you for yours!"

"Do you need me to walk you home?"

"Oh, no. I'll be fine."

Marilla smiles.

"Well, take care then. See you Monday."

"See you!"

And as usual, Marilla is the last to leave. She pulls the lorry into the mill, shuts down the engine, and bleeds off the remaining steam pressure. Then she closes the heavy double wooden doors and locks them.

As she walks home, her mind drifts. It is a cold, clear, late winter evening. The snow, which had formed a magical white blanket over Christmas, is now mostly slush, brown with mud and pollution.

The stars above are out in full glory however, defiant to the lights and smog of the city below. The streets are empty. Marilla's hair and clothes are playfully tugged by a teasingly icy breeze.

"Cheiko," she whispers softly. "Where are you tonight? There are so many things I wish I could say."

She sighs. The Japanese girl had gotten under her skin. First as an annoyance. Gradually, she came to admire her. And then maybe ... Well, in any case. She had left, like the others. Only Priscilla had actually said good-bye. And that was really just to entrust the laundry mill to Marilla's care.

The edge of bitterness had started to intrude on Marilla's memory of Cheiko. She would grip her hachimaki tight, hold it close to her heart, and close her eyes. Choosing to remember the fierce loyalty, the stubbornness, the impossible fighting will ... and not the abandonment. Not that she had left Marilla alone in the world after worming so deeply into her heart.

And then at Christmas she had received a parcel that contained the photograph. And the parchment banner. And the note. And although Marilla never felt bitterness thereafter, she still had to clutch the hachimaki tight, and hold it close to her heart, and picture the stubborn, loyal, fierce girl, to hold back the tears that threatened to flow when she considered how distant she remained. How she had never seen her, in person, since. And all too likely, never would again.

Marilla's pace is slow. Her mind is on Cheiko. On the emotions the girl stirs in her heart. She takes a deep breath, watching how it wafts up like smoke, up towards those stars so far above. She blinks to hold back tears. It wouldn't do for the passing strangers, as little as she even notices them, to see her cry.

When the arm wraps around her midsection she is forced violently back into reality. Stunned for a moment, she jolts forward against the strong grip. Gasping in surprise as a hand clamps over her mouth. A hand holding a rag, that was seeped in liquid that stings her flesh.

Sharp noxious fumes enter her mouth and nose, fumes she breathes deeply into her lungs before she can register the danger.

Her head feels light.

Her vision swims.

The world takes on a vaguely yellow hue.

Then darkness begins to encroach.

She struggles as long as she is able.

Her motions become slow as her limbs fill with lead.

And then darkness completely overwhelms her. And as she goes limp she can barely sense being lifted up. Barely hear a sneering laughter.

And then utter oblivion.


	2. London Calling

"Miss Charlotte, it's getting late. We really should get back home."

Princess Charlotte wore a simple cotton dress, a modest, white, long-sleeved outfit with a skirt that hung down below her knees. It was secured around the middle by a leather belt. On her feet were white leather ankle-boots. Her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, and (in partial deference to the local customs) mostly covered by a head-scarf. A handbag hung off her right shoulder, and she held a paper bag in her left arm. Oval, green-tinted sunglasses obscured her eyes.

She smiled at Beatrice, who wore light blue pants and blazer, with a white button-down blouse, blue bow-tie, and black and white leather saddle shoes (her 'handsome clothes,' as Dorothy would call them). Her hair was stuffed into a white Panama hat with a floral-patterned cloth band. She also carried a paper bag.

"It's really not that bad, Beato. Besides, I have one more stop to make."

Beatrice sighed.

"Are you still nervous?"

"I just think that Miss Ange is right. We shouldn't be going into town this much."

"How else are we to get food? Especially the local fare. Or would you prefer that I stop making couscous?"

Beatrice shook her head.

"I'll do the shopping alone next time, Miss Charlotte. It's safer that way."

Charlotte chuckled softly.

"The dear woman from whom I buy my supplies would miss me so. I can't forsake such a friendship, however new-formed, just because Ange retains her paranoia."

Beatrice's eyes darted quickly to one side, as a European man with ash-blond hair and pale blue eyes passed by. She quickly realized it was not anyone she'd ever seen before.

Charlotte laughed.

"Really? Perhaps you are the truly paranoid one."

"It just looked so much like ... him."

"My uncle would hardly be caught dead out here."

Beatrice shrugged.

"Still. We are almost done, right?"

"Yes, Beato. We are almost done."

The mood on the street in Casablanca was far more at ease than the more paranoid of the migratory Pigeons. Europeans, Africans, Arabs ... really, people from all over the world congregated here. There were some rumblings beneath the surface (" _savages_ " " _infidels_ ") but these were mostly subdued. The quiet (compared to Europe) and the mild, springlike climate seemed to set things at ease.

Finished with shopping, Charlotte and Beatrice returned to the French Residential Quarter by steam-powered bus. The white house was a short walk from there. It was just far enough away that they had no immediate neighbors to pry into their doings.

It was a two-story house, with plenty of room for them to spread out in. The low cost of labor, availability of land, and some well-placed incentives by the French Colonial authorities, had meant that what would have been a prohibitively expensive house in Paris or London or Berlin was within the modest budget of a young spy. Or at least, one who had been willing to supplement that budget with some ... creative acquisition of funds.

As they arrived, they saw Dorothy and Chise sitting at a small table in the front lawn. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, visible at some distance from the house. A few people wandered on the beach, or stood on the short pier nearby. A sailboat lazily drifted along the smooth surface of the sea, and a cargo airship was visible in the distance.

"Welcome home!" shouted Dorothy.

" _Okaeri_ ," Chise said with a wave and smile.

" _Tadaima_ ," Charlotte replied with a wry grin.

Beatrice giggled softly, and Chise's smile widened just a touch.

"Oh," Chise's eyebrows arched. "It will be couscous night soon!"

Charlotte smiled.

"Indeed. Your favorite."

Chise looked excited.

"Indeed! I do not suppose that you could make it tonight?"

"We shall see, Chise. Well, we must put away groceries. Is Ange about?"

Dorothy shook her head.

"She said she'd be home in time for supper."

"I see. I suppose she is on a Mission?"

"Yeah, some kind of scouting or something. Honestly, I don't even know what she's doing half the time."

Steps led up to a porch. Wooden pillars, carved to resemble classical Ionic columns, held up a second-floor balcony. The front door was painted red. It opened directly into the living-room. To the right, stairs led up and a door led into the study. The study held their fairly new Wireless, disguised as a cabinet. It was their chief means of contacting Control, now that they had effectively turned a brief vacation into a longer-term change of base.

The living room itself was cozy. A sofa sat in front of a coffee table. Three stuffed chairs sat at various parts of the room. A Victrola cabinet sat in one corner, a collection of records on a shelf beside it.

They passed through into the dining room. A round table was here, with five chairs. Three more chairs had been pushed against one wall.

And the kitchen was very modern. A gas four-burner stove and oven, an ice box (sadly not one of the new American electric models, but it was still adequate), and of course indoor plumbing with hot and cold water.

Beatrice and Charlotte unpacked their bags.

"It's just so nice here," Beatrice sighed.

"It is. You know, this house is, in many ways, far nicer than the royal manor-house that I grew up in."  
Beatrice nodded.

"My father's house had indoor plumbing, but we still had an old-fashioned wood stove."

"I would have expected he, of all people, would have purchased the very newest appliances."  
Beatrice shrugged.

"Cooking wasn't ever something he concerned himself with. That was the staff's responsibility. Now, his comfort at bath-time ...."

Charlotte laughed softly.

After finishing, Charlotte began to prepare their evening meal. Shooing Beatrice bodily out of the kitchen, despite her protests.

Ange returned home in time for supper, and they ate a simple if delicious meal (Couscous would have to wait; the stew required hours to be prepared properly).

Sharing conversation.

Sharing one another's company.

Evening was just beginning to settle in. Dirty plates had been cleared away. Tea was served.

It was a perfect island of utter peace in a chaotic world.

"A lie," Ange deadpanned.

Beatrice was grinning widely in Ange's direction.

"I don't know what we'd do without you, Miss Ange."

Princess fondly gazed at Ange. Dorothy fondly gazed at Beatrice.

"Live happier and more peaceful lives," suggested Ange.

"Another lie," Princess said with a smile. Ange's cheeks turned pink.

Ange glanced at the sugar bowl, and Princess noticed. She leaned in Ange's direction.

"Sugar?"

She batted her eyelashes, and notably made no particular effort to raise the bowl or push it in Ange's direction.

Ange's cheeks brightened, turning noticeably redder.

"No thank you. I prefer it straight."

"Really?" she asked, faintly surprised. Then with a shrug, Princess dropped one sugar cube into her tea.

"Beato? Would you care for sugar?"

As she asked, Princess lifted the bowl (flashing a quick smirk in Ange's direction) and handed it to the younger girl.

"Thank you, Princess," Beatrice replied with a smile. She dropped two cubes into her tea, and then glanced questioningly at Dorothy.

"Unlike our resident lizard, I love me a little bit of Sweet."

Beatrice blushed, and dropped a cube of sugar into Dorothy's tea.

"Oh, more than that. You know I can't get enough."

Beatrice's blush deepened, and she gave Dorothy a second cube of sugar. Then she pushed the bowl in Chise's general direction and hurriedly looked down to her tea, stirring it quite deliberately. Dorothy chuckled.

Chise frowned at the sugar bowl.

"I prefer the sharp bitterness of the tea's natural flavor. I shall pass on the sugar."

Ange nodded, standing partly to reach across the table, grab the sugar bowl, and drop three cubes into her tea. Princess giggled softly.

...

"I was approached by Lord Horikawa's agent in this region. He delivered to me a letter."

"Letter? From Japan?"

"No, Princess. From London."

Dorothy, Beatrice, and Princess reacted with surprise. Ange, as usual, maintained her stoic disposition.

"I trust it to be a matter of personal interest?"

Chise frowned.

"I believe it to be a matter of importance to all of us. I shall read it."

The envelope was plain white. The only marking on it was a simple, neatly written word. Or rather, a name:

_Cheiko._

Ange did not comment on this, though Dorothy drew in a sharp gasp of surprise.

Chise removed the contents and began to read aloud.

_Dear Miss Cheiko,_

_We hope this letter finds you well. We hope this letter finds you!_

_If you are reading this then our guess was right. We are giving this to the Japan embassy, hoping that they know where you are. It's the only way we can think to find you._

_Marilla is missing. She has been gone since_

Here, Chise looked up.

"From the date on the letter, it would seem she has been missing around two weeks."

She then continued to read:

_The police have investigated the matter but say they can find no evidence of what may have happened. We do not know what else we can do, but turn to you._

_Miss Cheiko, we know that you had a special place in your heart for Marilla. If you can, at all, please we beg of you help us! If your friends can help all the better._

_With fond affectionate memories,_

_Little Lambs Laundry._

"And then they have all signed their names."

She placed the letter in the middle of the table. Dorothy took the letter and read it over.

"Well. Gonna have to contact Control about this."

"Can we not simply return?"

"Simply? No," Ange stated.

Beatrice looked to the Princess.

"I think we should go."

"Perhaps, Beato."

Chise kept her expression neutral.

"Won't take long," Dorothy said standing up. She left the dining-room for the study.

"Until then ... Beato, will you serve more tea?"

"Ahh, of course!"

A few minutes later, Dorothy returned. She sat heavily.

"Well, we got our answer."

Chise stood beside her chair.

"You can sit, for goodness sake," Princess smiled.

"I shall stand."

Dorothy shrugged.

"Whatever. _Ahem_. ' Principal Team. Regarding disappearance. Suggestion to return to London denied.' "

Chise stiffened.

" ' _D_ , _A_ , vital to current ops. May not abandon. _P_ is strongly advised to refrain from returning to London while _Rogue Actor_ whereabouts unknown.' "

"Zelda," Princess whispered, a hint of fright to her voice.

"Yeah," Dorothy nodded. " ' _B_ advised to remain in service to _P_. _C_ is henceforth relieved from the Principal team."

Chise was unable to keep her composure.

"Dorothy-san? What is the meaning of this? We can not go back to London, and I am _fired_?"

Dorothy frowned, and fixed her with a sharp gaze.

"The message goes on to say that Lord Horikawa has given you permission to pursue this matter. However, you do so _unofficially_ _,_ and not as part of this team."

Chise took a deep breath, and bowed to each of the others.

"I see. Then, it has been a pleasure to work with you."

"Princess," Beatrice cried out, "We can't let her go back alone!"

"Beato, I'm afraid Control is right. The current mission means Ange and Dorothy can't go. And since we don't know where Zelda is, or what her intentions might be ...."

Beatrice clenched her fists.

"Then let _me_ go! I don't need to stay here."

Princess looked at her. Fondly.

"It's dangerous."

"Yes," Beatrice said.

"And Control thinks you should stay with me."

Beatrice blushed, and looked down at her teacup. Then she looked up at Chise.

"I want to go," she repeated.

Princess glanced at Ange, but she said nothing.

"Alright. My fierce, loyal Beato. You may return to London, to help Chise."

Beatrice turned back to Princess. Her expression was very serious.

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Then she turned back to Chise, with a thin smile.

Dorothy kept her gaze on Beatrice for a long moment. Suppressing a sigh,

"Okay," she finally continued, "there's another bit I need to read. 'In the event _A_ or _D_ disobey this order ....' " Dorothy blanched. "We can skip _that_ part. 'Should _P_ return we can not guarantee her safety. _A_ and/or _D_ advised to detain _P_.' "

Princess glanced at Ange with a widening grin. Ange blushed.

" 'If _B_ elects to go, then she is henceforth relieved from Principal team.' "

"So _I'm_ fired," Beatrice muttered.

"Yeah, for now. It ends saying you two are welcome back once the matter's settled. Due to remarkable talents, good service, blah blah blah."

Dorothy placed the original letter, and the transcript of Control's response, back on the table.

"So that's that," she shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all chapter titles will be song references (honest!) but a few more will be.


	3. Nocturne

Two washrooms for five girls caused inevitable snarls. Evening bath-time had been negotiated early to avoid as many as possible.

Chise had been granted the honor of bathing first, which she readily accepted. She would wash her body and shampoo her hair, then soak in the hot water. When she padded out of the upstairs washroom in a soft cloth yukata, she would bow and say good night to the others, then retire to her room.

Ange had insisted that Princess bathe next in the upstairs washroom. Beatrice had not objected. Dorothy, meanwhile, had unofficially claimed the downstairs washroom. Mostly by virtue of having claimed the downstairs bedroom. Accessible through the study, it was neither the largest nor the nicest. When Princess had observed that it would be the _quietest_ , Beatrice had turned beet red. No one had noticed, or at least commented, on this.

As Princess drew her bath water, Beatrice, in a white terrycloth robe and carrying a small bag filled with scented oils, soaps, and shampoos, would pad downstairs. Dorothy had given her the option of bathing first in the downstairs washroom, and Beatrice agreed.

Ange had remarked to Dorothy that this would be a good time for meetings to discuss strategy, while the two waited for the washrooms to be free.

"Yeah. Yeah we should totally do that. Some time."

They never did. Instead, an observant third party might have noticed that Ange, waiting until the upstairs hallway was clear, would sneak out of her room, and slip into the bathroom, well before Princess could have finished her bath. Likewise, Dorothy's show of patience in the study was just that. When she was certain no one would come downstairs, she would open the washroom door to the sound of soft giggles from the bathtub.

...

With bath-time out of the way, Ange, Charlotte, and Beatrice would each retire to their separate upstairs bedrooms. Ange and Charlotte chose rooms that happened, by pure chance of course, to be connected by an intervening door. Beatrice's room had a fairly thin wall between it and Chise's.

Dorothy would be the last to finish her bath, and on the way past the stairs, called up: "Good night everyone!"

Inevitably, Beatrice opened her door to shout, "Good night Miss Dorothy. Good night Everyone!"

Sometimes Ange, Princess, or both would do the same.

After a few moments of silence, Beatrice would open her door again and peek out. Chise's door was always closed. Reliably, she would be the first asleep. Usually, light streamed out from under Ange's door. Princess would, to all appearances, be asleep as well. If Dorothy's suspicions were correct, the door between their rooms would be open and the two would be ....

Beatrice always felt a pang of jealousy when she thought about that, even with circumstances being what they were.

Clad in light blue pyjamas, she would pad downstairs. She always peeked into the living room, just in case, before glancing in the study.

One, maybe two, times a month Ange would be in there reading, or gazing at an atlas, minutely examining the streets and alley-ways of London, and the twists and turns of the Wall. Mostly, the study would be dark and empty.

Dorothy's room would be neither. With the light dim, the older girl would be lounging on her bed, or perhaps standing beside it. Silks would drape her body, tantalizingly layered to just barely conceal her features. She would smile, wriggle her brows, flutter her eyes, and beckon invitingly. And an eager young girl would trot in, eyes wide in anticipation, a silly grin on her face.

...

Chise knelt before a low table. A parchment spread out in front of her. She held a brush heavy with ink. She focused her mind. She painted kanji onto the parchment with slow, easy strokes.

Her thoughts and emotions drifted to Marilla. She started on kanji meaning friendship.

Chise admired Marilla. She feared her in one sense, in that she had been dishonest to her. She had never even told the older girl her name. Not her real name. She had considered visiting the laundry mill. Princess had even encouraged her to do so. She had always let the thought pass by.

Just before Christmas, Dorothy had brought a camera to the clubroom. They had taken a series of pictures of one another. Even now, the photo of the five of them sat on a table beside Chise's bed. It showed Ange and Charlotte close beside one another, while Beatrice and Chise reacted with blended surprise and annoyance to the flash-bulb going off while Dorothy was in the process of settling herself between the two. They had laughed later about the flawed timer setting. When Beatrice developed the picture, Dorothy insisted that it be copied and given to the others: "It's really the perfect way to remember me, don't you think?"

Princess had been the one to suggest that Chise gift Marilla with a photograph. She had eagerly agreed, and with Beatrice's help, had worn a little-used kimono. It was light blue with dark blue floral patterns embroidered into it. A red obi, likewise decorated with dark blue floral patterns, was tied around her waist. She had styled her hair, again with Beatrice's help, and adorned it with fresh flowers. She had been mildly disappointed that the colors weren't really distinguishable in the black-and-white picture, but declined Beatrice's offer to develop it with colored tint applied.

Chise finished her current writing with a sigh. Her musings had mildly disrupted her meditative state. The calm she should have felt was replaced by fresh worry, for the young woman in uncertain danger. The young woman that Chise made a quiet vow to see to safety.

...

Ange sat at her desk, the oil lamp on the corner providing the only light. Her hair was wrapped up in a white towel. A thin blue robe hung loosely off her shoulders.

A blank book sat in front of her. She was writing the day's events, and her thoughts, and observations, and silly little nothings that came to her. The pen glided over the page, making hardly any sound.

She heard the door that connected her bedroom to Princess' open. Ange continued to write, having a particular thought that she didn't want to lose.

She heard Princess pad over to the desk, with a very soft chuckle.

Princess' lips pressed against the side of her neck. Ange shivered, sending the pen off on an uncontrolled course. She frowned.

"Sorry," Princess whispered, in a tone clearly indicating that she wasn't.

Ange dropped the pen, and turned. Her cheeks warmed, to see Princess standing before her, gloriously naked.

"I liked the outfit you wore tonight in the bath-room. I decided to match it. Do you approve?"

Ange nodded, a grin spreading across her face.

Princess leaned back down, with a chuckle. Ange's arms wrapped around her, one hand on her head the other on her back. Princess' hands slid lower.

Their lips met. A quick kiss, prompting Ange to stand. To press her lips, her body, against Princess'. The thin robe hung loose at her side, allowing their skin to touch.

...

Euphoria drained from Dorothy's body. Her breathing slowly returned to normal, hitching now and then as a quick little shudder ran up her spine. The soft gentle fingers, the eager hot tongue, continued to move for another moment. Slowing their pace. Finally stopping. And she shivered with disappointment as a feeling of emptiness replaced the sharp intense fulfilling pleasure of the previous moment.

It passed.

She could feel her lover rest her cheek against her inner thigh. With a sigh.

She leaned up on one elbow, reaching down to toy with Beatrice's hair.

The younger girl smiled up at Dorothy. "Good?" she asked in a quiet, uncertain voice.

Dorothy nodded.

Beatrice lightly pressed her lips to the soft skin of Dorothy's thigh, then shifted her position. Straddling her lover's hips, pressing forward. Pushing Dorothy lightly down, onto her back, and leaning close. Before Beatrice could kiss her lips, Dorothy licked and kissed at Beatrice's chin. The girl giggled.

"What's that for?"

"You're a messy eater. Always have to clean up after you."

Beatrice's face turned bright red.

"I ... don't know how you can do that."

"What? Not like you've ever refused to kiss me after I've ...."

"That's different! I don't really ever taste it. I guess I'm just not as ...."

She paused, to try to think of the right word.

" _Juicy_ as you are."

Dorothy smirked.

"Juicy, huh? Well, that's okay. It's good, right?"

Beatrice nodded eagerly.

"That's all that matters," Dorothy laughed.

Beatrice leaned down. The kiss lingered, and Beatrice deepened it. Pressing her tongue into Dorothy's mouth, as Dorothy's hands slowly slid down Beatrice's back, in languid circles: from her shoulders, teasing her sides, to her rear.

The kiss broke.

"You know," Dorothy continued, with a slight smirk, "just about everyone says that about me. _Juicy_."

Beatrice frowned.

"Everyone?"

"Everyone I've had sex with."

"And who would that be?"

Dorothy laughed.

"We've gone over this. No, I have not slept with Ange, Princess, or Chise."

Beatrice's expression turned mischievous.

"And?"

"Nor with any other girl you could care to name. Probably."

"Hmmm."

"Though there _was_ that one really hot teacher ...."

"Oh my god!" Beatrice cried out in mock-scandalization. Dorothy laughed.

"Not even joking. Though you don't know her either. Trained at the Farm."

"That makes it even worse! How old were you?"

"How old were _you_ when you first ...."

Beatrice giggled and clamped a hand over Dorothy's mouth.

"No fair, I am _trying_ to be jealous of _you_."

Dorothy licked Beatrice's hand, causing her to giggle harder and move her hand away.

Dorothy and Beatrice gazed fondly at one another for a moment, then with a sigh Beatrice rested her head between Dorothy's breasts.

"I am jealous sometimes, though."

"Me too."

"You? Of what?"

"Princess, honestly. Well, also how everyone gushes over you. Says how cute you are, and so on."

"I _am_ cute," Beatrice said, with no pretense to modesty.

"Wouldn't have seduced you if you weren't," Dorothy teased.

Beatrice was silent a moment.

"You are terrible," she finally muttered.

"This is true."

"Besides, Rule Three specifically says Princess is excluded. You can't be jealous. It isn't allowed."

"Sure, sure. Told you before, Princess is fine. That is _if_ she can take her eyes off Ange long enough to notice you, or anyone else."

"You sound jealous of _her_."

"Maybe a little."

"Really?"

"Of Princess? Yeah. She's got Ange, and she has you, for a certain value of _has_. She's rich, powerful, famous, pretty ...."

"You have bigger boobs," Beatrice said flatly, as though that resolved the entire matter.

Dorothy laughed. Her hand slowly ran through Beatrice's hair.

"Love you," she whispered.

"Love you," Beatrice responded.

...

The robe and towel lay discarded on the chair beside the Spy's desk. The oil lamp had been extinguished. The bed-sheets and pillows lay in a heap at the side of the bed.

"Charlotte?"  
"Mmm?"

"Beato fancies someone."

"Hmmm."

The Spy was softly kissing Princess' inner thigh.

"She had many interesting questions on the matter when we spoke earlier today."

"Hmmm?"

"I believe that she may suspect that our relationship is more ... intimate than we admit."

"Mmmm."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Mmm hmmm."

Princess giggled softly. The Spy was nuzzling higher.

"It is particularly difficult to hold a conversation with you while you are doing that."

"Hmmmm...."

Princess gasped, and closed her eyes.

"You are insatiable," she cooed.

"Mmmm hmm."

...

"Doro?"  
Beatrice lay atop Dorothy, her head resting between her breasts.

"Yes Sweet?"

Dorothy's hands were running slowly through Beatrice's hair.

"Do you like my hair loose like this?"

"Hmmmm."

She ran her hands softly over Beatrice's temples, and the side of her head.

"Or do you prefer it when I have it styled up?"

"Well," Dorothy breathed. "I do adore your cute, tight little buns."

Without warning, Dorothy slapped Beatrice's rear lightly, with a grin.

Beatrice jolted up, crying out in surprise more than pain.

"But in terms of your hair ... either way is good."

Beatrice glowered at Dorothy, her cheeks turning bright red.

"You are so terrible, Doro!"

Dorothy giggled.

"Okay, new rule."  
"A rule from Beato? Okay, let's hear it."

"Rule 4: The smacking of bare butts is prohibited."

"Denied!" Dorothy cried out, swatting Beatrice's rear harder, leaving a red hand-print behind.

Beatrice cried out, eyes watering, body squirming.

"Owie!" she giggle-whined.

"Sorry," Dorothy laughed, as she gently rubbed Beatrice's red bottom.

...

"Charlotte?"

Princess held the Spy close to her body. The Spy pressed back lightly against her, her rear nestled snugly against the Princess' hips.

"Ange?"

"You're awake."

"Yes."

The Princess softly kissed the Spy's earlobe.

"I wish I could go back to London."

The Spy turned to face her Princess. Their hips pressing lightly together, their torsos far enough apart that they could gaze into each other's eyes. Their arms wrapped around one another's bodies in a loose but loving embrace.

"You don't like this house?"  
"I adore it, Charlotte. I adore Casablanca. It does feel like a second home. But, I miss my first home."

The Spy nodded, with a soft sigh.

"When it is safe, we will return. I promise you that, Ange."

"I know, Charlotte. Forgive my impatience."

The Spy laughed softly.

"Impatience is the last thing I'd ever accuse you of."

The Princess smiled.

"You never accuse me of anything, even when it's justified."

The Spy shrugged, her cheeks dusted with pink.

"I can't think of anything I'd ever feel justified accusing you of."

"My very point," the Princess smirked.

"Still. We do need to be careful, Ange. The Maghreb is a world away from Europe, and it feels safe and secure. However, it has eyes. Ange, did you know that Russian agents were following you today as you shopped?"

"And you were following them, I assume?"

"For a time, yes."

The Princess sighed.

"I don't want to be a princess here. I don't want to be a pawn in anyone's political games. I just want to be your love while we're here. Is that too much to ask?"

Ange leaned in close. The embrace tightened. Their lips met. Soft, silken, tender. Even as the kiss deepened there was a softness, a gentleness to their touch.

"Love you," Ange whispered as the kiss broke.

"Love you too," Charlotte responded.

...

"Doro," Beatrice whispered.

"Yes Sweet?"

Beatrice shifted slightly, so she could look up into Dorothy's eyes.

"You don't want me to go."

"No. No, of course I don't."

Beatrice looked at her in silence for a moment.

"Why didn't you say anything earlier, at the meeting?"

"Didn't seem appropriate."

"To tell your girlfriend not to go on a risky adventure?"

"When our relationship isn't known ...."

Beatrice sighed heavily.

"Beato?"  
"I am tired. Of hiding this I mean."

"Well ... Ange and Princess ...."

"Have a reason," Beatrice snapped. Her response was sharper than she intended, but she didn't relent.

Dorothy blinked in surprise.

"You're a noble too though."

"I am the daughter of a Baron. In a few years, I'll inherit his fortune and estate. It's not the greatest legacy in Albion, but it's enough for _us_ to be comfortable, and secure."

"Then we really should keep things secret. We don't want to jeopardize that. It isn't any different from Princess and Ange, really."

Beatrice sighed, clearly becoming frustrated.

"Doro, Princess is fourth in line to the throne. If word gets out that she's dating a commoner, and a girl at that, there would be scandal. They're _right_ to hide their relationship. At least until Princess can be in a position to legitimize it."

"Wouldn't there be a scandal for you too?"

Beatrice shook her head.

"Not really. My father's already pretty well ruined our family name. I mean, it would make the tabloids. Proper London Society would tut-tut, and use me as an example of declining morals. It'd pass quickly, and not really be a _scandal_. Not like it would be for the Princess."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Yeah. It really doesn't matter what they think. Or say. What _we_ _do_ ... that's what matters to me. And what I do not want to do any more is hide."

"To hell with the consequences," Dorothy whispered.

Beatrice nodded.

They were quiet for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Sweet. I didn't know you felt this way."

"I wasn't saying anything. I thought maybe ... I don't know."

"Don't do that. Talk to me. We're a couple, okay?"

"Yeah. Love you," she whispered.

"Love you too, Beato."

After another moment, Dorothy sighed.

"Okay. We'll tell the others when you get back from London. We'll be open about things."

Beatrice smiled.

"Thank you."

They shifted position, Beatrice pressing her lips to Dorothy's.

"I am yours," she said to Dorothy as the kiss broke. "I gave myself to you completely. I want us to be together always, and I want _everyone_ to know."

" _Je t'adore_ _,_ " Dorothy whispered.

Beatrice shivered, leaning in to once more capture Dorothy's lips.

...

Princess lay on her belly. Her eyes were closed. She snored, a soft sound that Ange found endearing.

In the dim light, Ange looked at her. Her soft skin. Her blonde hair that splayed out across the mattress beside her. Her pretty face. The contours of her shoulders and back and rear and legs, all intimately familiar to her.

She leaned down, and lightly kissed Princess between her shoulder blades. The young woman muttered in her sleep, and Ange smiled.

She draped an arm over Princess, resting her cheek on her back, and closed her eyes.

...

Shortly before dawn, a disheveled-looking Beatrice, her pyjama top never quite buttoned on straight, would sneak out of Dorothy's room with a yawn, pad up the stairs, and into her room. She would climb into bed, close her eyes, and manage to get an hour or two of sleep before the clock beside her bed would begin to ring.


	4. A Trail Into the Dark

That morning, Lily Gaveston had awoken early. She was one of the first in the dining hall for breakfast, and retreated into the Academy's library before class.

She sat at a desk by a window. An atlas was open to the United Kingdom of Albion. Her finger traced lazily along the border between Kingdom and Commonwealth. Unmarked on this map that had been printed before the revolution.

On the desk beside the atlas sat a copy of the Times for early January. With its headline about the failed assassination attempt. A photograph of the Victoria Cathedral, emphasizing the damage visible from the outside, occupied a considerable amount of the front page.  
She sighed, and glanced out the window. It was early spring. The leaves and flowers struggled to bloom. The sky was dull blue, dotted with furtive clouds.

A taxicab pulled up to the front entrance of the main Academy building. Lily watched, curiosity turning to surprise when she saw the Japanese girl Chise, and the Mad Baron's daughter Beatrice, exit the cab.

She half stood, leaning forward against the window.

...

Chise and Beatrice had met with the headmaster, and they had been given the keys to their old room. Morning classes had already started, so the hallways in the dorm were deserted. Quiet.

Chise nervously eyed each door as they passed it.

"I still question the wisdom of returning here."

Beatrice smiled.

"Everyone will be thrilled to see you, Miss Chise. You don't have anything to worry about. Besides, this way we can access the clubroom, and the ... _facilities_."

Chise glanced at her.

"You are correct, I suppose."

They heard footsteps approach. Chise stiffened, and Beatrice blinked in surprise. Lily walked around the corner, her shoes clicking in a steady tone on the tile of the floor.

"Well well. The prodigals return," she smiled. She almost sounded pleased.

Chise visibly relaxed. Beatrice grinned widely.

"Miss Lily! It's nice to see you again. We missed you. Didn't we, Miss Chise?"

Lily's cheeks brightened, and she glanced at Chise.

"Ah. Yes. Your company has proven to be quite pleasing. At times."

A thin grin spread across Chise's lips. Lily's cheeks turned a shade redder.

"Oh. Well ... well, yes. Yes, of course. So... you are back? I mean, you've returned to your studies. Not just to retrieve possessions, or ...."

"We're back, for a while at least," Beatrice answered.

"I see. And Princess Charlotte. How are things with her?"

Beatrice shifted awkwardly, blushing.

"Well, you know. She was quite ... traumatized with the events that happened after Christmas. She is still recuperating."

"I see. I wish I had the chance to speak to her again."

Chise glanced at Beatrice, then cleared her throat.

"Well, Lily-san, as nice as it is to speak with you, we must go to our room. And then to class. At that, should you not be in class?"

Lily outright blushed.

"Well ... I saw that you had returned. I asked permission to arrive late, to greet you."

"I see," Chise replied.

They stood there for another moment, until Beatrice nodded.

"Well, we'll have other chances to talk, Miss Lily. We really should get going."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Take care, the both of you!"

...

"Suspicious activity to report."

Lily whispered. She always did. Even though this was a private room. The walls were sound-proofed, and there was no chance anyone could overhear the conversation. She still felt paranoid every time she called in like this. Her eyes darted around the room, as though a Commonwealth Spy were here. Listening and watching. Under the bed, perhaps?

"Continue," the voice on the other end replied. Serious. Female. A voice that made Lily shiver. Mostly from fear. Mostly.

"The baron's daughter, Beatrice, and the Japanese girl, Chise. They've returned."

There was silence on the other end.

"Umm, I said ...."

"Yes. I heard you. Are they not Academy students?"

"Well ... yes. It just seemed strange. Princess Charlotte and her entourage all disappeared at the same time. And these two return now? Why is that."

"You tell me."

Lily swallowed, and shifted awkwardly in her seat.

"I don't know. Since it seemed suspicious, and I've been instructed to report ...."

"Yes. Thank you Gaveston."

She blinked.

"Ma'am?"

"That will do. Unless there is something else?"

"No ma'am."

"Good."

"Thank y ...."

The connection had already dropped.

That evening, Lily made a point of sitting one table over from Beatrice and Chise. She heard nothing but the inane chatter of schoolgirls. Continual pointless questions to the two, from their classmates. About how their vacation had gone, what had happened, and so forth.

And the answers were all equally pointless and empty.

"Ahhh well. Yes. A very delightful time."

"Oh, _Delightful_ eh?"

A blush and a shrug.

"What is his name?!"

"Oh I .... "

Giggles.

"Come on Miss Beatrice! You simply _must_ tell us!"

"Modesty forfend," the nobleman's daughter replied, the very model of Coy.

Lily felt nauseous.

...

Their old room felt different. Chise had left the Academy for another school just after Christmas, and had taken all of her things. The shrine she had set up was gone, and she had only the bare minimum of possessions with her. She hoped, if the truth be told, to not spend long here.

Her eyes were open. She stared up at the dark ceiling above. Unable to sleep. She told herself she needed this rest. Rushing out blind into London wouldn't help anyone.

"Lily Gaveston may prove to be a problem," Chise mused aloud.

Beatrice rolled over onto her side. In the darkness, she could just barely see Chise. The Japanese girl turned her head, glancing at Beatrice.

"I hope she's not too suspicious of us."

"I would imagine I am the chief concern of hers. Ever since that duel I have noticed her pay a great deal of attention to me. She likely suspects that I am the "Ninja" that the Kingdom so greatly fears."

Beatrice chuckled softly.

"To be fair, you did win a gunfight without a gun."

Chise smiled, though Beatrice didn't see this in the darkness.

"Well. Regardless, we shall have to be wary of her attention."

"Mmm. Good night, Miss Chise."

Chise frowned.

"Good night, Beato."

The younger girl closed her eyes, and rolled over, turning her back to Chise. The Japanese girl watched her for several minutes. Soon, she could hear a soft snoring coming from her. Chise sighed, and turned back to face the ceiling.

...

The sun was just beginning to rise. Back at the Academy, students were just waking up, and staggering to the dining room for breakfast.

Here down by the river, men, women, girls and boys had been up for hours. Harsh, heavy labor streaked their faces with sweat and coal dust. Their eyes, weary beyond their years, followed the two girls with mingled suspicion and resentment.

A small boy wearing a pork-pie hat and threadbare coat, bumped into Beatrice as she walked down the street. As he ran off, she checked in her purse.

Chise glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.

"He stole three pounds," Beatrice sighed.

Chise looked back at the retreating boy.

Beatrice shrugged.

"Three pounds. I don't even have the heart to be upset."

As they approached the laundry mill, they could hear the rumble of the steam engine. They saw the heavy cloud of smoke billow from its chimney. Heard the belts and drives hum.

There was no singing.

The lorry idled in front of the mill. A young woman passed a full, heavy bag down from the bed to a young girl, who staggered under the burden, into the mill. A young, stout girl sat beside the working woman, chewing on a hunk of bread.

She happened to glance up, and see them as they approached.

"Ah! It's Cheiko! Cheiko and Becky!"

The woman standing looked up.

"Cheiko!"

More cries.

"Cheiko! Becky!"

Girls spilled out of the mill, shouting and cheering.

"Okay," Rita quickly shouted, "morning break."

She recognized that she would have lost control of the girls in any case. Not that she wasn't eager, and not that she didn't join the others in rushing out.

Beatrice and Chise shared a glance.

"You're back!"

"You can find Marilla."

"Please, help us!"

"Okay, girls," Rita said. The general ruckus continued for another moment. Rita frowned.

"Quiet!"

Everyone stopped talking. Rita blushed, glancing down at her feet awkwardly.

"I'm ... I'm just as glad to see them as everyone else, but ... they just got here so ...."

"Ah right!"

"Give them space!"

"Let them think."

...

They entered the office, Rita closing the door behind her. And shooting a dirty glare at the dozen faces peering into the office through the window. Two dozen eyes went wide, and instantly ducked down out of sight.

Rita sighed.

"I really am glad to see you two. They are too. Just ... _can_ you help us?"

"We will find her," Chise stated flatly.

Beatrice nodded.

"Okay. What do you need?"

"I should like to walk the path Marilla took that evening."

"Ah. Right. I mean, she would always ask if I needed to be walked home. It was ... I mean, I always said no. You know, I don't want to be a bother. But ... I mean, if I had said yes that night. Would it ... I mean, would she have ...."

"Rita-san. Focus, please."

The girl nodded, blushing.

"Sorry. Yes, she always took the same route. In the morning coming to work, and in the evening to go home. I can show you."

"I'd like to look at the accounts," Beatrice said.

"Oh. Of course. I mean, I've looked at them again and again. Maybe .. maybe you can see something new?"

Beatrice shrugged.

"It can't hurt anyway."

Beatrice walked around to the chair. And she happened to notice the photograph on the desk. She giggled softly.

Chise glanced at her curiously.

"Nothing," she said with a grin. Chise shrugged.

...

"Um. Can I help?"

Beatrice looked up. The girl was her age, maybe a little younger. She had pale blue eyes and dirty blonde hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. Her skin was light, and Beatrice didn't notice any scars or burns.

"Oh. I suppose so. I don't think I know your name?"

"No. No, I'm Josie. I started here just before Christmas."

Beatrice nodded.

"Okay. My name's .…"

"Becky! Yes, I know. I've heard all about how you fixed the machines and made everything run smoothly. How you're friends with Priscilla, who saved the laundry mill."

"Ah. Yes, well ... I guess I did fix the machines, but it really was everyone's hard work that saved the mill."

Josie nodded eagerly, and pulled a chair over to the desk. She smiled, the expression reaching her eyes as a glimmer of excitement.

"What can I do? Oh, I can read so I can look through the books!"

Beatrice nodded.

"Okay, sure. That will help. Just look for anything strange."

She grabbed the top ledger book, opening it to the first page. Her expression rapidly changed. She frowned, and her eyes narrowed.

"Ummm. This is all numbers."

Beatrice sighed.

"Yes. I'm trying to see if anything doesn't add up."

"Oh. Oh! Do you think the laundry mill is in financial trouble? Like last time?"

"Maybe. I won't know that until I can look through the books."

Josie nodded, and her expression turned serious.

Beatrice turned back to the ledger she was looking through. She became aware that the girl beside her was wearing a light perfume. Floral. It wasn't overpowering or unpleasant, but it was certainly noticeable.

She glanced over to her. Josie was running her fingers along the lines. Looking at the numbers, and clearly not having much luck understanding what she was reading.

Beatrice sighed, again. She probably wouldn't be much help, but somehow she didn't have the heart to say anything.

...

Chise walked along the sidewalk, slowly. She scanned the pavement, and the scraggly grass trying to grow. Rita walked alongside her, watching every move she made.

"Cheiko ... do you think you'll see anything? It's been two weeks, and the snow has melted. It even rained after that night."

"I do not know. I will not know unless I look."

Rita shrugged.

"Okay. I really hope you can figure out what happened. I don't know how much longer I can run the mill alone."

Chise smiled.

"It appears that you are doing well enough."

"Well enough isn't _good_ enough, though."

Chise glanced at her.

"That does not sound like the fighting spirit that I left you in."

"No. It isn't," Rita sighed.

...

Darkness began to fall. Chise and Rita returned to the mill, exhausted. Disheartened. They had walked as far as Marilla's boarding house. If there ever had been evidence of what had happened it was long since washed away.

They returned to the office to find Beatrice massaging the bridge of her nose. A ledger book sat open in front of her. Josie had her head on her forearms. Her eyes were closed.

"Nothing?"

Beatrice sighed, and shook her head.

"No. Everything's in order. As far as I can see anyway."

Chise nodded.

"I also found nothing. It is as though the earth simply opened up, to swallow her."

Rita made a despairing noise. Chise placed an arm over her shoulder.

"I have sworn to find her. I shall do so, whatever hell I must enter, whatever demon I must fight."

Rita nodded, and sniffled.

Josie's eyelids flicked open and she sat up slowly. Yawning.

"Oh. Miss Cheiko. You're back."

"Yes."

Josie nodded.

"I didn't see anything either," Josie said, pointing at a ledger book.

Beatrice blinked, and suppressed a smile. It was the same book Josie had grabbed when she first offered to help. She had been pouring over it for hours.

"Thank you for your help today anyway," she said, patting Josie's shoulder.

The girl's cheeks turned pink, and she nodded.

"Well, it's closing time for the mill." Rita said, exhausted. "Marilla sometimes said something inspiring to the girls before they left. I can't think of a single thing to say."

Chise nodded, and opened the door. She strode out to the work-floor.

Beatrice, Josie, and Rita shared a surprised glance, then scrambled out the door after her.

"Workers!"

Most of the girls were done with their tasks. They looked up at Chise. Mostly exhausted. Dispirited. A few eyes glimmered with hope.

"I am deeply troubled by what I am seeing."

Beatrice glanced awkwardly at Rita, who was blushing. A murmur of uncertainty made its way around the work-floor.

"Do you know who it was that saved the mill from closure?"

Silence.

"Do you know who it was that allowed you, yes every one of you, to remain here? To earn your wages, and thus the bread that you eat? The roof under which you shelter from the rain?"

"Marilla," someone called out.

"Priscilla," someone else shouted.

"You, Cheiko," someone else yelled.

"No," Chise replied, with a heavy frown. She slowly walked around the floor.

"You did," she said, pointing at a girl standing in front of the ironing table. She squeaked in surprise.

"And you," she said, pointing at a young woman holding a bag of clean laundry.

"And you," she glanced at the stout girl, holding a half-eaten crumpet.

"All of you have done this. You saved your own mill. You saved your own jobs. Neither Marilla, nor Priscilla, nor I, could have done this thing alone. It is through your own hard work, your own sweat, your own tears, that you have done this."

Rita looked up, eyes wide in surprise.

"I do not know when Marilla shall return, but I swear to you that she will. What would she think, if she returned to a silent work-floor? How would her heart break, to not be greeted by the stirring sounds of your beautiful voices?"

A girl cheered. Another clapped. A third started to sing.

And as Rita pulled the master lever, shutting down the machines, and as the lorry was pulled into the laundry mill for the evening, and as the last clothes were pressed and packed into sacks for delivery in the morning, the laundry mill vibrated with song.

...

"Yes sir," Josie said quietly. Her expression was serious. She held the telephone handset in both hands. one along the handle, the other cupping the mouthpiece.

"Cheiko and Becky. No sir, no one else. Becky. Yes, I think that I can. No, they have not found anything yet. At least, not that I know. Yes sir, thank you sir."

She hung up the phone, and stepped out of the red phone box. The early spring night was cold, and a drizzle fell from the sky. Slowly, she made her way back to the flat she was occupying. Her sponsor had rented it for her, so she could be close to the laundry mill. She liked the flat. She liked the laundry work. It was far better than her usual job. Still, she owed her life to _him_. Whatever tasks he set for her ... she had a job to do, and she would do it to the best of her talents.

...

Gazelle stood at attention in front of the Duke of Normandy's desk. She wore her usual white uniform and glasses. She remained outwardly calm and patient, even as she mentally counted the minutes of silence that represented time that she could have used more effectively contacting her agents, or even being in the field herself.

"You have a report, Flint," the Duke finally asked.

"Yes sir. Your niece's friend, the baron's daughter, has returned to Queen's Mayfair Academy. The Japanese girl, that we suspect to be Horikawa's Ninja, has returned also."

Normandy looked up from the paper he had been reading.

"Is that so? My niece is still unaccounted for?"

"Yes sir, as are the bumpkin and the twenty year old."

Normandy pursed his lips.

"Curious. Have they done anything at all suspicious?"

"My men trailed them to the laundry mill."

"The one whose foreman was recently abducted?"

"Yes sir, the very same."

"Curious indeed. Can you spare the men to watch the laundry?"

"I already have an agent doing so, sir. Our stake in its operation is minor, but not inconsequential."

"Yes. Yes, very good Flint. Report to me if anything else comes up."

"Yes sir."

...

At breakfast the next morning Chise glowered at a plate of sausages, eggs, and charred toast spread with something that tasted like salted, fermented fish eggs ... without the dignity of being proper caviar.

Beatrice grinned at her.

"Nostalgic, isn't it?"

Chise turned her dark expression on Beatrice, who just giggled.

Lily sat down at their table, a seat or two distant. She and her two friends were chatting, when abruptly, she looked up with wide eyes.

"Oh, Miss Chise. I think I have something for you."

Chise turned to face her, still scowling.

"Umm. If it's a good time, that is."

Her expression softened.

"Apologies. I have not slept well lately. What do you have for me?"

Lily stood up, and walked to her. She handed her a small envelope. It was plain white, without an address or postage. It only had one word on it. _Chise._

"It was in my post box this morning. I don't know who could have possibly made such a mistake, but ... well, I thought that I would hand it to you directly."

Chise took the envelope, and nodded her thanks.

Lily turned to her friends.

"Oh, dear. I seem to have forgotten something. I shall see you in class."

They started to protest, but Lily turned on her heel and darted away before they could.

Chise and Beatrice shared a confused look.

During their morning break, they strolled casually through the garden. Chise turned the envelope around in her hands.

"We should open it," Beatrice said.

Chise nodded.

"It is perhaps too convenient, do you not think so?"

"Of course," Beatrice nodded. "That had to have been placed in Miss Lily's postal box directly. I don't see how anyone could have done that by mistake."

"So," Chise mused, "either Lily-san herself has written this note, for my eyes as it were, or another party desires that I suspect that she has."

Beatrice nodded.

As the time allotted for the break drew near to a close, they found themselves seated on a bench. Beatrice glanced expectantly at Chise, who shrugged.

"I suppose that we might as well."

Carefully, Chise loosened the glue, prying up the sealed flap of the envelope. Within was a single sheet of white paper, trimmed down to the size of the envelope. The message was type-written: " 'Little Bo Peep, You've lost your Sheep, and I know where to find Her.' "

Chise and Beatrice both frowned.

"Is ... is that it?" Beatrice asked.

Chise turned the paper over. A single word was written there, in neat hand-writing they did not recognize.

"Whitechapel."

...

Lily Gaveston closed and locked her door. She slid open the secret panel in her desk, revealing her Wireless.

"Gaveston reporting in. The note has been delivered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt there is any confusion, but to clarify Josie is not related to Josie Redbud of Game of MIssion.


	5. Moonlit Memories

_"Under a beautiful moon, we fell in love, in a simply ...."_

Chise glanced over at Beatrice. Who abruptly stopped singing.

"Sorry."

"It is okay. That is Dorothy-san's song, yes?"

Beatrice nodded.

"The song her father taught her."

"I never heard her sing it after ... that day."

"Well ... you can't really blame her."

"And yet you sing it now?"

Beatrice looked back up at the full moon.

"Something happened."

 

O

 

 

 

 

It was another moonlit night. Dorothy and Beatrice stood, hand-in-hand, looking out over the dark ocean. The night was crystal-clear, the moon full and large.

_"With a happy melody, we were making light ...."_

And Beatrice abruptly realized what she was singing. She blushed heavily.

"Ah! Sorry, I didn't ...."

Dorothy smiled. Sadly. She leaned down, pressing her lips to Beatrice's cheek.

_"...while laughing, and sharing many kisses,"_ she sang.

Beatrice smiled.

"It is a beautiful song. I mean, even if ...."

"No _even if_ , Beato. It _is_ beautiful."

They embraced, and kissed. And held each other tightly. Standing in the moonlight, as the tide rolled in.

"It's not really summer," Beatrice said quietly, "but the song feels like it's about right now."

"It is," Dorothy replied, with a smile.

They kissed again. Then, arms still wrapped around each other, they sang. Quietly. Only for each other's ears.

 

O

 

 

_____

Chise blinked in surprise.

"You? And Dorothy-san? You are ...."

Beatrice nodded.

"Yeah."

Beatrice looked up at the moon. She continued to hum the song.

Chise watched her for a moment. She felt a strange tickling at the base of her neck. Felt her heart skip a beat, and become heavy as lead. She abruptly turned her head away, uncertain. Uncomfortable.

 

 

O

 

_____

 

The Princess and the Spy sat together. The water lapped perilously high on the pier, but they paid it no mind. They were arm in arm. Their bare feet in the cool salty water. The Princess rested her head on the Spy's shoulder, the Spy's cheek against the Princess' hair. They looked out over the dark sea. at the floating ribbon of silver that shone from the large and full moon hanging low in the sky.

"Charlotte," the Princess whispered. "Do you think that they will be alright?"

The Spy smiled.

"Of course, Ange. Chise is our best fighter. She's clever and cunning. And Beato is tough and smart. They'll be fine, even with the danger."

The Princess smiled, and turned to look into her Spy's eyes.

"I agree with you. However, that's not what I was asking."

The Spy didn't try to hide her surprise.

"Ange?"

"I meant, Beatrice and Dorothy."

The Spy blinked. The Princess laughed softly. The Spy shivered at the sound, even if it was at her expense.

"Have you not noticed, Charlotte? How they act around one another? How they talk to each other? How Beato's hand innocently brushes against Dorothy's, and how their cheeks become pink? Or how they sometimes forget that they're not alone, and lean in close and nearly kiss ... only to remember at the last moment."

The Spy blushed.

"I ... have not. I guess I really _don't_ notice. Not if it isn't about you, Ange. Or about a mission, of course."

The Princess sat up, her expression turning serious.

"That will not do, Charlotte. They are our dear and precious friends. From now on, you are to take notice of them."

The Spy turned to look up at the moon.

"Alright," she whispered. "For you, Ange. I'll pay more attention to them."

The Princess leaned in, and kissed her cheek. The Spy turned back, a wide smile crossing her face. They inched closer, wrapping their arms around one another. Pressing their lips together.

 

 

 

O

_____

 

Dorothy sat on the edge of her bed. Moonlight streamed in through her window. She couldn't sleep. With a sigh, she closed the curtain. A thin sliver of silver shone on the far wall.

She stood, and padded quietly out of her room. To the kitchen. She took down a small glass, and placed it on the counter-top. Then she opened a cabinet, and grabbed a tall, thin bottle filled with amber fluid.

She placed the bottle beside the glass, and padded out to the living room. The moon hung low in the sky. The sea, visible past the beach, glowed in the soft light. She could see, on the very end of the pier, a couple embracing. She sighed, and walked back to the kitchen.

She picked up the bottle, and placed it back in the cabinet. Instead, she filled her glass from the tap, and drank. Water. Pure. Clear. Cool.

"Beato," she whispered. "please be safe."

 

 

 

 

__O__

 

_"Even though we're so far apart now, You are the most important one in the world ...."_

Chise glanced back at Beatrice. Tears, shimmering in the moonlight, rolled down the younger girl's cheek.

"We ... should get going," Chise finally said.

Beatrice nodded, wiping her eyes.

"Yeah."

She loaded the grapple gun, giving it a quick once-over. Making sure it was in good order. She didn't want to risk anything happening. Not while they were hanging by so thin a thread. She wasn't allowed to die, after all. She paused, and glanced back up at the moon.

"Wait by the light of the moon. I will come home soon," she whispered.

 

 

 

 

\--O--

 

Dorothy shivered. She padded back to her room, and opened the curtain, allowing the moonlight to stream inside once more. She looked out over the quiet, moonlit night.

"Come home soon, my Sweet."

She lay back down, closed her eyes, and drifted off into a sleep filled with peaceful, moonlit memories.

 

 

 

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, more of an interlude. Chapter 6 should be posted in a few days.


	6. Ripper's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chise and Beatrice explore Whitechapel.  
> Will they find Marilla, or only pain and suffering?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight tagging change. Reviewing future chapters leads me to believe that tagging "graphic violence" would be prudent. It isn't much greater than canon levels of violence (episode 10 anyone?) but just to be safe.

"Whitechapel." Beatrice frowned.

Chise nodded. Her lower face was covered, but her eyes betrayed anxiety. She couldn't tell you much about London. There were a number of landmarks she could reach, mostly due to necessity. Mission demands. But neighborhoods? Highbury and Richmond and Kew ... They were just names. But Whitechapel? There was a reputation associated with that name.

She had heard about the Ripper murders on the journey here from Japan, It had bothered her, the idea that such a monster could exist. And yet not be stopped. Or even found. She felt certain that she could have easily exterminated Jack. And yet, with Marilla’s disappearance, being associated with the Ripper’s Den ... she could not entirely keep that nagging fear from her thoughts.

"Where in Whitechapel?"

Chise glanced at Beatrice.

"We will find it," she said with more confidence than she felt.

" _It_. We don't really even know what we're looking for. Let alone where."

Chise sighed.

"We will know when we find it."

"Will we, though?" Beatrice continued.

"Well, we will not find anything if we simply grouse about it."

Beatrice frowned.

"I'm not grousing."

Rather than continue to argue (she really was grousing, after all), Chise hopped over the edge of the low-hanging roof onto a stack of crates below.

Beatrice, with a sigh (because she really was _not_ grousing! Whitechapel wasn't just a street and an ominous alleyway after all. And where did Chise learn a word like _grousing_ anyway?) followed her down.

...

Whitechapel High Street had steady, busy traffic for as late as it was. Shopkeepers hurried to the tramway station, or crowded into buses, or threaded their way through the crowd on foot or in cars. Evenings in the East End were dominated by the pubs, the restaurants, and the middle-class folk "slumming" in the East End that crowded to them.

Chise was on the rooftops. She leapt from place to place, keeping close eye on Beatrice in the streets below. Blending seamlessly into the crowds, Beatrice listened and watched. She saw a boy in tattered rags bump into the leg of a well-dressed man. Watched as he ran off, and into an alleyway. Saw his face light up as he opened a nice leather wallet.

The Pub was crowded. Laughing men, flirting women. A well-dressed man in a Stetson hat abruptly accosted by a shabby drunk wearing a battered top-hat. Knives drawn, a punch thrown, and the drunk collapsed. The Stetson flew into the crowd to be crushed, as its owner, beyond enraged, jabbed the blade into the drunk's side, again and again.

On a quieter street, a woman approached her with a smirk. A lewd wink. And Beatrice maintained a level head, for all that her skin crawled at the woman's forward behavior. A couple tens of pounds slipped from Beatrice's fingers to the woman's. A question. A denial. Frustrated, Beatrice shook her head, and wished the woman well. With a shrug, the woman counted her money, more than she would expect for far less effort, and turned away.

London Hospital had a grim population. The sick and injured. The dying. Beatrice entered the front. Asking questions, and learning what she could.

Chise on the outside, climbing the facade, looking into windows. examining faces and bodies. Increasingly disturbed with the images of suffering, she found herself forced to kneel atop a low rooftop. Stop and empty her mind. Center her soul and focus on her purpose. Marilla. Find and save her.

And nothing in the hospital or the pubs or the streets or the brothels suggested to Chise or Beatrice a connection with Marilla's disappearance.

...

"I am exhausted," Beatrice said quietly. She was reloading her grappling gun.

Chise, sitting cross-legged on the roof beside her, watched her in silence.

"So much ... horror here. If you let it, it'd really crush you."

Chise glanced up into the sky. The full moon was very low in the sky, just barely shining above the city skyline.

"I don't know what else we can do."

"Continue to look." 

"For how long?"

"Until we find Marilla, or collapse."

Beatrice sighed.

"This has to be a distraction. Or a trap. Or something. I just feel like we're wasting time."

Chise rose to her feet, and walked to the edge of the rooftop.

"If you are too tired and dispirited, then you may return to the Academy. You are no use to me in this condition."

"No, Chise. You need my help. I'll stay with you."

Chise said nothing for a long moment, then turned.

"Close your eyes, Beato."

"Why?"

"Please."

Beatrice sighed again, and with a shrug she did so.

Chise took a step closer to her.

"Empty your mind. Put aside fear and doubt. Do you remember the shape, and the contours, and the colors, of Marilla's face?"

Beatrice nodded once.

"Focus on her. Know that she is in danger. That the longer we delay the more grim her possible fate."

"Yeah," Beatrice whispered.

"Now put aside your fatigue. Ask yourself how you can rest, when she remains in danger?"

Beatrice opened her eyes, and looked at Chise. Met her eyes.

"I ... I understand what you're saying. I don't know if it helps me though."

"Please?"

Beatrice nodded once.

"Until ... until we find her. Or collapse."

...

They continued to search, moving from rooftop to rooftop. Still uncertain what to look for; Searching alleys. Searching side streets. Looking in houses. In closed shops. Wherever they could enter or glance through a window.

And just when it seemed that all was hopeless, and that Beatrice, or both, would return to Mayfair Academy in defeat, they noticed something.

It was down a quiet, sleepy side-street. Business traffic had more or less stopped. Only a trickling few trams ran. Only those in pubs, or being entertained by prostitutes, were still awake.

Except for a lone lorry, parked by a warehouse. Its engine was off, but the headlights were still on. And there were two men standing by the vehicle.

"At this hour," Beatrice whispered. Chise shrugged.

They dropped to the street in an alleyway. Quietly, avoiding the headlights, they sneaked up to the men. They could hear snippets of their conversation.

" ... mouth to feed."

"Looker though. I'd fancy ...."

Lewd laughter.

Beatrice reached to her hip, carefully drawing a small, snub-nosed revolver. Chise nodded approvingly.

Behind the truck, out of the headlights, was a low brick wall. They crept up behind this.

"Well, boss says we gotta keep 'er. Draw out the one he's after."

"Yeah, and no touching. Like _he's_ one to tell _us_ that."

Chise and Beatrice shared a look. If they weren't talking about Marilla, then there was another kidnapped woman being held in a warehouse on a sleepy side-street in Whitechapel.

Chise gestured, indicating a wall, on the other side of a narrow gap. It would allow them to move to the back of the warehouse under cover.

Beatrice nodded, and started moving in that direction.

Her foot made contact with something. A small discarded tin. Her eyes went wide as she saw the tin fly up into the air. It landed in the gap, bouncing once with a metallic 'ping!' then rattled and bounced along until it hit the edge of the far wall with a clang.

"Oi!" The two men looked directly at them, and drew revolvers.

Chise and Beatrice ducked down behind the low wall, just as they heard shots ring out. Bullets ricocheted off the top of the wall.

"Sorry," Beatrice mouthed. Chise showed no emotion.

Instead, she pointed at Beatrice, and mimed shooting a gun, then pointed to herself and motioned toward the farther wall.

Beatrice nodded once, clutching her revolver. Chise turned, crouched. Coiled up like a spring.

When she heard the shot directly behind her, she rose and ran for the wall. There were further shots. She focused entirely on getting to the other wall. Even as she heard a sound that made her stomach flip. A bullet ricocheted off the pavement. Then she reached the safety of the wall, and another bullet hit it.

She took a deep breath and turned.

Beatrice lay on the ground, her gun a distance away from her. Her hand clenched her chest, an inch or two below her breast. A red stain spread out over her jumpsuit and between the fingers of her hand.

Chise took another breath. Panic would be her worst enemy in this moment. Calmly, calmer than she thought possible, she glanced around the corner.

One man stood beside the lorry, holding his revolver at the ready. She did not see the other. She looked behind herself quickly, to ensure that he had not flanked their position already. Then holding her breath she darted out, running back across the gap she had just closed. A bullet hit the wall inches behind her.

"Beatrice?"

She knelt down beside the girl.

She groaned. Blinked. Turned barely-focused eyes up to Chise's.

"Ow," Beatrice moaned.

In another context it might have been funny.

"We must move."

"Doctor ...."

"Yes."

Chise slipped her arm under Beatrice's back, and the girl likewise wrapped an arm over Chise's shoulders. They got up to their feet, despite a soft whimper of pain from the younger girl.

"You ... know how?"

Chise forced them to move, crouching down under cover. Painfully slowly.

"Yes. Dorothy and Ange have both drilled into my head, how to get to the office."

Beatrice grimaced, and nodded.

Chise pulled them into an alley-way, and behind a crate. She glanced at the ground. There was, thankfully, no trail of blood. Though at the rate it was leaking through Beatrice's fingers that would not be true long.

"This way," they heard a shout. Then two men ran past the alley.

"Here! Over here!"

And the sounds of them running grew softer.

Chise peeked out. The street was empty.

"Move," she hissed.

Beatrice ran. As well as she could. Supported by Chise.

"Can't ... die," Beatrice whispered.

Chise glanced at her.

"Would ... break a rule," Beatrice continued.

"Quiet," Chise snapped.

Beatrice nodded. Her hand was slick. Her face grew pale. Her limbs numb. Her eyelids, heavy.

She stumbled. Chise slipped her free hand under Beatrice's knees, lifting her up.

Beatrice grew limp. Her eyes started to close.

"Beato?"

Chise's voice sounded so distant.

"Beato, stay with me!"

Beatrice could just barely see Chise.

See her face.

It seemed to draw back into the distance.

Grow blurry.

And a thin film of red seeped across her vision.

And darkness drew closer.

Deepening.

She was falling.

Away from the world.

Away from what she knew.

What she loved.

She saw a girl. A young woman. She reached out for them. For the blue eyes. The lavender eyes.

Desperately clutching at air.

No.

Not air.

There was no air.

The blue eyes, the lavender eyes, they drowned in red. They paled. Closed.

And as the beautiful faces of those that she most loved in the world faded, a surge of despair at never again seeing them overwhelmed her.

And crushed out the last spark of Beatrice's consciousness.

...

Dorothy awoke screaming, drenched in cold sweat. Ange and Charlotte took turns through the sleepless night holding onto her as she cried inconsolably.


	7. Don't Die Before I Do

Chise knelt on an ebony sofa with red cloth padding. Her sandals and jingasa lay on the floor beside it. her eyes were closed, and her hands, palms up, rested on her knees. Her breathing was slow and even.

The calm exterior hid a turbulent rush of feelings and thoughts that she desperately fought to suppress. Her mind should have emptied. Instead, it filled with the sight of Beatrice's eyes closing. Her head lulling back. Her face draining of color.

She heard a door open. Heard heavy footsteps.

She opened her eyes. The doctor was a man in late middle age, greying brown hair and a full if well-trimmed beard. He looked exhausted.

"She'll live," he breathed as he fell onto the sofa. Leaving a respectful space between himself and Chise.

"It was a close-run thing. Another few minutes ...."

Relief flooded Chise. She breathed out a sigh.

The doctor nodded.

"She awoke during surgery. Helped me find the bullet."

Chise cringed, despite herself.

"She's not all flesh and blood and bone, you know. Bullet lodged against ... something. Probably kept it from going through her lung."

"Can I see her?"

The doctor blinked and sat up, appearing to come to life.

"Yes, of course. It'd be good if you did. Though she may not be very talkative. Or even aware. I gave her an analgesic after stitching her up."

"An ... alg ...?"

"Pain killer."

“I see,”

She stood up, slipping on her sandals and placing her jingasa on the sofa. She walked over to the door, and pushed it open.

There was a short corridor, with several doors leading off. One was marked WC, indicating a washroom and toilet. Most were closed and marked “private.” The last one was open.

Within she saw Beatrice. She was laying in bed, atop the covers. A section of her bodysuit, on the left side just below her breast, had been cut away. Bandages covered the skin, and the bullet wound. The left sleeve of her bodysuit was also partly pulled, partly torn, and down just below her elbow. A bandage was wrapped there as well.

Beatrice's face was still pale, but her eyes were open. She was fidgeting about something, but it wasn't clear what. Her hip-pack, a fountain pen, and an empty gun holster lay on a little table beside her.

"Beato," Chise whispered, a sad but relieved smile crossing her face.

The girl turned to face her. Her eyes were unfocused, her pupils dilated.

"Chise," Beatrice slurred, voice buzzing mechanically. "You came back!"

Chise stepped over to her, grasping both of Beatrice's hands.

"I never left."

"No. No, you ... I didn't see ya. Just the doc."

"Had I been allowed, I would have stayed by your side through the surgery. The doctor refused."

Beatrice grinned widely.

"But you _did_ come back," she asserted.

Chise laughed softly.

"Yes, Beato. I came back."

Beatrice blinked, her expression abruptly changing. Her face turned a vaguely green shade.

"You should sleep," Chise said.

Beatrice nodded.

"Yeah. That or throw up."

"Perhaps try to sleep first," Chise suggested.

Beatrice nodded again.

Chise helped her settle in under the covers, and pulled them up to Beatrice's chin. The brunette's eyes closed, and she was soon asleep, a low, buzzing snoring sound in her throat.

Chise leaned in, and very softly kissed her forehead. Beatrice mumbled something, but remained asleep.

...

"Sorry," Dorothy muttered. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her cheeks were still wet.

"It is alright," Princess said quietly.

Early morning sunlight streamed in through the window. Princess held onto Dorothy, her hand softly running through her hair.

"It was just so vivid. I could see her. _Smell_ her. It was her, _right there_. And the ... blood. So much...."

"I know," Princess whispered.

Ange entered the room, carrying a piece of paper. A transcript from Control.

"Beatrice is alive. She has been shot, but our company doctor saved her."

Dorothy nodded once. Numb.

"So not a dream."

"Of course it was," Princess soothed.

"No. I saw it. Saw the bullet. The blood."

Princess glanced reproachfully at Ange, who shrugged.

"Still, she is alive. This is what matters."

Ange wasn't quite certain whom she sought to reassure.

"Would you like some tea," Princess asked, looking back at Dorothy.

Dorothy nodded.

"Okay. Lie down, and I will bring it to you."

Dorothy smiled softly.

"Thanks. You're ... too good sometimes."

Princess smiled, and stood. Ange turned to leave, but felt Princess' hand grip her shoulder. She froze.

Princess turned, still smiling, and pushed Ange through the door into the study. She closed it behind her. Then, she turned Ange around.

Ange's face was red. Her eyes were wide, and she looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"I thought she needed to know, Ange."

The Princess' smile flattened, then vanished into a frown.

"Of all times not to tell a lie."

"But ...."

"Charlotte, could you not see? That was one moment, if any was, that a lie would have been correct. 'Beatrice is fine.' It would be so simple."

Ange blinked, and looked down at her feet.

"I'm sorry."

Princess sighed, unable to remain upset. She released Ange's shoulder, and lifted her chin with gentle pressure from her index finger..

"No, I am sorry, Charlotte. I am tired. My nerves are frayed. I am worried _as hell_ over Beato."

"Me too!" Ange insisted, tears flooding her eyes.

Princess' expression softened. She leaned in, kissing Ange's lips softly.

"And you are right. Dorothy would have found out. What would she think of us had we concealed the truth from her?"

Ange shrugged.

"Go up to our room," Princess said softly. "I'll bring tea up for us,"

Ange nodded again, and shuffled off to the stairs. Looking, for all the world, like a scolded child.

Princess covered her mouth with her hand, and turned. She really should not laugh. It was not funny. The situation _really_ did not call for laughter. But seeing the stoic, serious Spy sulk off like that ... Princess chuckled into her hand.

...

Chise knelt in front Lord Horikawa, who sat cross-legged in front of her. Bags and dark circles were under her eyes, but they retained a spark of determination. The low table beside her held an empty plate and cup. The food had helped both her strength and her spirits.

"The girl will live?"

"Yes, Lord Horikawa," Chise stated clearly.

He nodded.

"Involving her was a risk. It is best you avoid doing so further."

"Sir, she came along with me voluntarily. She was aware of the consequences of her actions."

"That may be true. In any case, my advice stands."

Chise was quiet for a moment.

"Sir, if I may ask, what reason do you have for advising that I involve myself in this matter?"

"I know you, Chise. I know your heart. This woman is a friend. As soon as I saw the faces of the young girls who came to me, I knew that you would want to help them. To help her."

Chise nodded.

"I thank you for this. If I may be honest, the moment that I read the letter, I had planned to come."

"If I had refused to allow it?"

Chise considered this for a moment.

"Duty to my lord, versus duty to my friend. I cannot say. I pray I never have to make such a decision."

Horikawa nodded.

"To disobey a superior for the sake of a friend is no cause for shame. Punishment yes, but not shame. Were we in a past period, such action would certainly be celebrated in poetry."

Chise nodded.

" _Tragic_ poetry of course."

"Of course. Well. Control has been made aware of the girl's injury. This information has been forwarded to the Principal Team. "

Chise nodded.

"I see. Thank you, Lord Horikawa."

"Keep me advised of your progress."

"I shall."

...

The wireless was open. Ange sat in front of it, with Dorothy and Princess on either side.

" _A_ to Control."

The speaker was crackly, the volume turned low: "Proceed."

Dorothy and Princess shared a glance.

"Requesting permission to return to London."

There was a silence on the other end.

"We understand your concern _A_."

"Do you," Dorothy snapped.

" _B_ was advised to remain there. She elected to ignore this advice. Regardless of this, she is receiving top treatment at our company doctor."

"Control, I do not believe that is good enough," Princess said softly.

"I am afraid there's no option at this stage."

"I see," Ange replied. "Very well then."

She severed the connection, and looked at the other two.

"This is bull," Dorothy said.

"Indeed," the Princess nodded.

Ange frowned, considering the options.

"At present, Beatrice is safe."

"They say," Dorothy frowned.

"By convention, a spy downed, and in the care of a company doctor, is considered off-limits."

"And since when has _convention_ ruled you, Ange?" Princess snapped.

Ange winced.

"I understand what you're saying, but our orders are to remain, and it is still dangerous for you to return."

The Princess sighed.

"We can no more abandon Beato to her fate than Chise could Marilla."

"Yeah," Dorothy nodded. "Far as I'm concerned, I'm willing to risk being spanked by Control over this one."

"And I am willing to risk my life," Princess said quietly.

Ange glanced between the other two.

"Alright. We will return to London, then."

...

A starless night, lead-grey and heavy. From where Chise stood the city stretched out below her like a spider web in the morning dew: glittering red and yellow, a beautiful trap. Shining death, swift and merciless.

Chise took a deep breath. She gripped her katana in one hand, and spun on her heel.

On the rooftop by the opposite edge stood a figure in a full grey dress. Grey gloves over her hands. Black gauzy veil over her face. A revolver was in her hands. It pointed at Chise.

"Ninja."

"Flint."

Chise eyed the distance between them. Calculated in her mind how quickly she could draw her sword. She could deflect the bullet. She had before. How quickly could Gazelle fire?

"I am not here to fight you."

Chise narrowed her eyes, frowning under her mask.

"Why are you here then?"

"I know where your friend is being held."

Chise watched her for another minute.

"Gun?"

Gazelle chuckled, a quick sardonic sound.

"Sword?"

Chise nodded once.

She released the hilt, and raised her hands, palms facing Gazelle.

Gazelle nodded once, and holstered her gun.

"I will help you, if you meet my terms."

"What terms?"

"I am aware of Lord Horikawa's divided loyalties."

"Nonsense. He has one strict loyalty to our Emperor and Nation."

"Of course. I mis-spoke. I meant to say, how even now he is uncertain which Albion is deserving of his support. Your personal loyalty to the Commonwealth spies is touching, but misplaced."

"Speak plainly, Flint."

"There is more going on here than you know, ninja. I'm offering you the chance to rescue your friend, with help from the police, and my spies. In exchange you answer a few questions."

"About Commonwealth spies."

"Naturally. You know their inner workings. I have some information. I desire more."

"You still speak in riddles. You want me to betray one friend to help another?"

Gazelle didn't answer. Chise frowned in frustration.

"I will not."

"Things will be more difficult for you, mark my words."

"A threat?"  
"I do not make threats, ninja."

She took a step backward, toward the edge of the roof.

"I have taken the liberty to send a pleasing floral bouquet to your injured comrade. I trust she has a chance to enjoy it before ...."

"Before?"

"Your _company doctor_ is informally a safe zone. We don't attack there, even though we are quite aware of its existence. _We_ do not, that is to say."

"Wait .. are you saying ...."

Before Chise could ask more, Gazelle stepped off over the edge of the roof. She ran over and looked down, to see the woman fall nearly to the ground, before firing a grappling gun at a neighboring building. She jolted to a stop inches above the pavement, then turned and walked briskly away.

Chise frowned. She could not take the chance.

...

Ange sat in a cafe in Casablanca. The mid-day heat was stifling. She sipped on an ice tea, and glanced around nervously. She knew a pilot. One that was very talented in quickly and quietly getting people from place to place. They had agreed to meet here. It was not where Commonwealth agents usually met.

After a moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder. A firm, heavy hand.

" _A_." It was a familiar voice. Not her pilot friend.

"Well. I confess that I did not expect to see you."

"Of course not."

"So why are you here?"

The man stepped around, and she looked up at him. He wore a beige suit, grey fedora, and wore a white carnation in his lapel.

He released Ange's shoulder, and sat. He ordered an ice tea as well, and waited until it had been delivered before speaking again.

"What are your intentions?"

"My friends are becoming concerned. I do not know how much longer we can maintain order."

"So you disobey Control."

Ange took a deep breath.

"I must be loyal to those that are on my team."

" _B_ is no longer on your team."

"She is, so far as I am concerned."

"I sympathize. Believe me. At the same time, this cannot be allowed. Return and assure the others that _B_ is safe."

"I need something more than your word."

"Of course."

He handed her a photograph of Beatrice in bed, a nurse standing on one side, Chise on the other. All three were smiling, though Beatrice's smile appeared strained.

She glanced at him, and slipped the photograph into a pocket.

"Now," he continued, tone low and with an edge of threat, "we will be watching. You are to remain in Casablanca until such time as you are ordered otherwise."

"Our mission is all but finished. You know that."

"We have something else coming up soon. We need you in place."

Ange, expressionless, watched him for a long moment.

"I suppose we are left with no options."

"Indeed not. Your ... twin, as it were, is particularly vulnerable. It would be best if she remain out of sight. Yes?"

Ange stood up and strode off, unable to keep anger from boiling up into her expression.

...

The doctor lay beside the red-cushioned couch, face down. An ugly bruise spread across the back of his neck. Chise leaned down, verifying that the man breathed, before launching herself toward the interior door. Drawing her katana as she moved.

The door to Beatrice's room was open. The bed was empty. The window smashed.

Chise ran to the window. She stuck her head out, and immediately drew back as she heard a gunshot.

She looked back out.

Two men in dark suits and bowler hats ran away from the office. One carried a heavy looking revolver. The other held Beatrice over one shoulder. The girl was struggling, hitting and kicking at the man.

Chise growled and leapt through the gap between the broken shards of glass. She hit the ground and rolled. A bullet ricocheted off the pavement behind her.

She scrambled to her feet, charging at the men. She shifted the grip of her katana at the moment she saw a flash from the revolver. She felt the sword jolt as a bullet flew off harmlessly, throwing a shower of sparks.

The man with a revolver shouted something in a language Chise did not understand, and two men, also in suits and bowler hats, stepped out from alleyways on either side. They both held four-foot staffs in two-handed, sword grips.

Chise never stopped running. She lunged at one, swinging her sword, ducking at the same time under the swing of the other man. Her katana hit the staff with a resounding metallic sound.

The man rolled with the momentum rather than trying to stop the katana. He spun, the staff swinging in a complex under-over arc. Chise danced out of the way of the blow, directing a swift kick at the other man, who likewise jumped back.

As he hit the ground, he launched himself back toward Chise. His staff was high above his head, in an obvious power attack.  
She side-stepped, nearly walking into the attack of the other man, who had never stopped spinning. She blocked that strike with her katana, immediately shifting to a one-handed grip, at the very end of the katana's hilt.

The man who had made the overhand attack turned and prepared to swing again, only to find the point of the katana thrust in his direction. He was forced to clumsily stagger backward to avoid being impaled.

The other man immediately swung at Chise's extended arm. Chise's free hand swatted the blow to one side.

As before, he continued to spin with the momentum. Chise anticipated this fresh attack, ducking back and returning to a two-handed grip.

As the spinning man turned back to face her, she stepped toward him, swinging her katana up in a classic cricket stroke.

The flat of her blade impacted the man's crotch. He was lifted off the ground several inches, before collapsing in an undignified heap.

The other man groaned in sympathy pain. But only until the flat of the katana's blade impacted his nose, with a sickening crunching sound. He fell to the ground, now with his own pain to deal with.

Chise didn't stop to check on the men, instead returning to the chase. Full speed, her katana back at a one-handed grip and held behind her as she ran and crouched forward.

She ran out into the main street, hearing a woman scream.

She ignored this. Running for several more steps ... before realizing she did not have any idea which direction the men had gone.

She stopped, and glanced up and down the street. Then to the alleyway across the road.

She heard police sirens. She swore a quick, sharp expletive in Japanese, and bounded up to the rooftops.


	8. To Lose Beauty in Terror pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice is in the clutches of the enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are dark and harsh. Additional tags added just to be sure, though nothing will be described in too great detail ... mostly it will be implied and off-screen.

Beatrice had been lying awake in bed. Her toolkit lay on a table beside her bed, a screwdriver and pair of needle-nosed pliers beside it. She was fiddling with a fountain pen, and glancing down at a notebook. She had been scribbling and doodling. Bored, unable to stop thinking.

_Who were those thugs? The warehouse surely was where Marilla was being held, but why?_

Something was missing, she was certain.

When the men in dark suits and bowler hats charged in, she had been taken by surprise. This was supposed to be a place of safety after all.

She had been grabbed like a sack of potatoes, hauled over one man's shoulder, while the other kicked out the window. They scrambled out moments before Chise charged into the room.

Beatrice, still clutching the pen, had kicked and had punched at the guard. It hadn't made any difference. When the gun first went off, she had cried out in surprise.

As they passed an alleyway, the man with the gun shouted: "Go! Stop her!" in accented but passable French.

She had enough time to see two men with long sticks leap out and attack Chise, before they had turned a corner into the main street.

There was a commotion around them, as the few pedestrians in the dimly lit street reacted to the scene, but the men hadn't slowed.

After a time, they had ducked into an alleyway that opened to a quieter side street. She was tossed into the back of a lorry. The wind was knocked out of her and she dropped the pen. The man that had carried her picked it up with a chuckle. Then the other man roughly pushed her down to the floorboard and held her, while the first man pulled a rough burlap sack over her head, and wrapped a rope around her wrists.

She heard the doors of the lorry close, heard the petrol engine start, and felt it jolt into motion.

What seemed like hours later, the lorry came to a stop. The engine died. The back door opened, and she felt rough hands grab her shoulders and push her forward.

She was pushed into a building. Likely the warehouse they had found earlier in Whitechapel, but there was no way for Beatrice to be certain. Then she heard another door open, and after a moment another. She tried to mentally map the space, but the partly-healed wound in her side had started to throb, and she felt a headache coming on.

The sack was yanked off her head, one of the two hair decorations she used to cover her hair-buns slipping off with it. She blinked, and groaned softly. The light hurt her eyes.

"Becky?!"

Beatrice blinked.

"Marilla?!"

The woman was in a brick room with a heavy iron bar front and gate. A jail cell.

The corridor was fairly short, little more than a hallway between two wooden doors, and two cells.

"Touching," one thug spat. He pulled the ropes off Beatrice's wrists, and shoved her roughly into the empty cell.

Beatrice had not been able to get a good look at Marilla. She appeared unharmed, if somewhat pale, and thinner than she had.

"She dropped this."

He gestured with Beatrice's fountain pen.

"Almost tempted to let her keep it."

The other guard frowned.

"Nope. You know what the boss said. Any possessions ...."

"I know, I know," the guard grumbled.

Beatrice took a deep breath, again trying to mentally map the environment:

Wooden door. Corridor. Two jail cells. Second wooden door. An unknown space beyond that one. She did know that another door beyond that led to a larger, open space. The exit was there somewhere. Likely the lorry sat there. Which also meant, very likely, more thugs.

The two men walked through the door, which they closed and locked.

"Becky? Are you okay?"

"Never better," she quipped. "We're here to rescue you."

"Good job so far," Marilla replied. Beatrice had to laugh.

" _We_. So Cheiko is with you?"

Beatrice frowned, and glanced at both wooden doors.

"Have you been hurt?"

Marilla didn't answer right away.

Beatrice felt her headache deepening. The gunshot wound was throbbing again. She sat down on the only piece of furniture in the cell, which was a lumpy, uncomfortable cot.

"No. No, they didn't touch me. Said I was more useful as bait."

Beatrice frowned in confusion.

"Bait?"

"Yeah. He kept ranting on about how he had figured it out. How she was in both places. And I was gonna draw her out so he could get her."

She closed her eyes, and massaged the bridge of her nose.

"He? Her?"

"I only heard one name. The name of the girl he's after."

Beatrice gasped.

"What name?"

"Daisy."

Beatrice's eyes went wide. Her stomach twisted as cold fear gripped her.

"I don't know anyone by that name," Marilla continued, "so I don't have any idea what he is on about. Do you know her?"

"Yeah. That's the name ...."

The wooden door opened again, and Beatrice stopped talking.

The two guards entered the corridor again. One smirked, his eyes glimmering with dark amusement. The other remained impassive.

"Boss wants to talk to you," the amused guard said looking at Beatrice.

They opened the cell door, and entered. Beatrice was exhausted, in pain, and still felt numb from what Marilla had said. She had no fight left in her.

They shoved her back through the door they had entered.

The room was small. There was a table and two chairs. Two doors. One presumably led out into the warehouse. The other one stood open.

They pushed her through this door.

There was a table along one wall. A key-ring sat here, beside the fountain pen that Beatrice had been clutching when she had been abducted. Other tools, and devices that she decided she didn't really want to look at too closely, lay on the table as well.

In the center of the room, directly under an electric light bulb, was a chair. Heavy iron shackles were set into the arms and legs. Legs that were hinged to allow movement. It was an examination chair.

Beatrice shuddered with a terror that she couldn't suppress. The guards shoved her over to it.

"N ... no!"

She struggled to shrug or pull out of the thugs' grasp. To stop the momentum. To escape however she could.

She briefly felt stabbing pain in her throat, and her temples. Phantom pain. Flashes of visceral memory from a past she had thought she had gotten over.

Well-intentioned paternal cruelty.

Here and now there were no good intentions.

She screamed as they shoved her into the chair. She again tried to yank herself free, and to flee. Somewhere. Anywhere. But there wasn't any real chance.

As one guard held her against the chair by pressing a heavy hand against her chest, the other closed the shackles around her wrists and ankles.

Beatrice fought to control her breathing. To keep down her terror. She was a spy, she told herself. This was an interrogation room. Right? Ange and Dorothy had experienced this, she was sure. Interrogation. Questioning. She could handle that. Right?

Then another thug entered the room.

Beatrice's heart hammered in her chest. Her breathing became rapid. She recognized him.

He was tall and thin, handlebar mustaches sprouting from his upper lip. He wore a dark suit and a bowler hat. He carried a tripod and a leather case.

He stepped to one side, setting up the tripod, while a second thug entered. He was short and stout, dressed similarly to the first and also with thin mustaches. He strolled over to the chair, eyeing Beatrice closely.

And then a man with blonde hair entered. He wore a garish, purple coat and trousers, orange waistcoat, white shirt, and white ascot. He had a dark brown Vandyck beard and mustache. He carried a black cane with a knobby brass handle.

_"Frankie,"_ Beatrice hissed. For a moment, contempt and anger overrode her fear.

His face lit up with a broad, leering smile.

"Oh! You remember me!"

His high-pitched voice made Beatrice's skin crawl.

"I am delighted."

He pointed at the first two thugs, the ones that were armed with guns.

"Leave."

They shared a glance, then exited the room. Closing and locking the door behind them.

The thin man set down the leather case, and pulled a camera out of it. He fit it on the top of the tripod, loaded a roll of raw film into it, and set an electric flash-bulb into a socket on the camera's side.

Frankie nodded at him. The flash bulb went off.

"Take two," Frankie said, "just to be sure."

The thin man nodded, and the bulb went off a second time.

Beatrice blinked.

"What are you ...."

"Before shot. For our archives, if you will."

Beatrice frowned.

"I won't tell you anything."

Frankie laughed. He pranced over to her. Leaned in close. She flinched back as far as the chair would allow.

"Don't care," he sneered.

She swallowed and blinked. She tried to keep rising terror from overwhelming her.

"You .. you know I'm not alone. They will ...."

"Yes yes, rescue, revenge, so on, so forth. Well, they are not here now. Are they?"

He stood back up, tapping the knobby handle of his cane against the palm of his free hand.

"So. 'Becky', is it? I never would have expected it really. The morgue? A laundry mill? The same girl in each place?"

He shrugged, continuing to tap the cane against his palm.

"What is Daisy to you anyway? Sister? Mother? Close enough she'd fight for you. Try to come and rescue you maybe? Even if the laundress means nothing to her."

Beatrice scowled.

"If she does come ...."

"Then it's exactly what I want. So threaten away."

He giggled, a sneering, stomach churning sound.

He then moved close to her again, leaning in.

"And what is this?"

He started to reach for her throat.

Beatrice's eyes went wide. She lowered her chin, to block his hands.

Frankie snapped his fingers. The thick, meaty paws of the stout man clamped around Beatrice's cheeks, and pulled her head back. She cried out.

She felt Frankie's fingers touch the lid to her clockwork larynx. She failed to suppress. a fearful whimper. Frankie laughed.

"I'd heard rumors. I wonder ...."

His hands ran along the collar of her bodysuit. Beatrice closed her eyes, tried to focus on something, anything, other than what was happening.

"This is in the way," Frankie muttered.

She felt his hands grip the collar of her suit. She felt him tug it out and down. Felt the fabric give way.

She cried out, shuddering. She felt cold air on her exposed shoulders and upper chest, and throat.

Frankie stepped to one side and snapped his fingers.

The flash bulb went off once. Then again. Beatrice flinched each time.

She couldn't help but whimper as she felt Frankie lean back close to her, felt his fingers trail roughly along the metal band around her neck. Felt him prod and poke at the seam where flesh and metal met.

Then he flipped the lid open.

She cried out again. Her throat felt cold. Felt as though the core of her being were open, exposed. And there was not a thing that Beatrice could do to prevent Frankie from doing anything he wanted.

Frankie pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. He leaned in close, closing one eye, and gazed into the inner workings of Beatrice's throat. She tried to pull away, but the meaty paws of the thug behind her prevented her from doing so.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

She shuddered.

"To imagine. The stories of the mad Baron's clockwork daughter are true. And that she'd be here. Corpse-washer. Laundress. Baron's daughter. Clockwork doll?"

He stood up, placing the magnifying glass back in his pocket. He paced, tapping the heavy handle of his cane against his palm.

"I must remember not to damage you. Permanently, in any case. You might just be worth something."

Beatrice cringed as she felt Frankie lean back down. He closed the lid of her voice box, and started to twist the dials on its surface.

"Don't," she pleaded weakly, in a stranger's voice.

"Oh yes, very very useful."

Her frightened breathing was alien to her own ears.

"You can sound like anyone!"

He gave one dial a last twitch and her breathing silenced completely.

He looked up at her, laughing.

"Perfect! I don't even have to listen to you when I don't want to! Oh yes, I am most certainly keeping you."

He stood up. She heard him hit the handle of his cane on his palm. Harder this time. Her chest heaved with heavy, panicked breath, but she made no sound.

Frankie nodded at the heavyset man. He released her cheeks, then slowly walked to the front of the chair.

He reached down. Beatrice cried out, silently, as his hands gripped and ripped at the torn cloth on her body.

He stood up, and took a step back from the chair.

Frankie leered.

Her bodysuit had been ripped away from her, from neck to waist, arms, and shoulders. Her face turned bright red, as Frankie's eyes lingered.

The flash bulb went off. Twice.

Frankie gestured at the bandages on her side.

"Those too," he whispered.

She screamed, soundlessly, as the fat thug ripped the bandages away. Flinched back as Frankie reached down to the wound. Fingertips tracing the stitches.

"Well. You've certainly a top-notch surgeon. Hope I don't re-open that wound."

His tone implied that he had no such concern.

He stood back up, slapping the head of his cane against his hand, hard enough that it had to sting. Beatrice flinched at the sound.

Again, the flash bulb went off.

"Oh. Right."

He leaned back in to her. Fear, shame, exhaustion, had all taken their toll on her. She had no resistance left as he reached down to tweak the dials on her larynx.

"This will never do."

He adjusted them until her breathing returned to something resembling her natural voice.

He stood back up. His eyes narrowed. A sadistic sneer crossed his face. Holding the end of the cane, he drew it back. Twisting at his waist.

_"I want to hear this."_

He swung the cane, the heavy brass knob whistling through the air.

The flash bulb went off.

And it went off again.

And again.

And again.

Again.

Again.

...

..

.

 


	9. Divided We Fall

"I don't like it," Dorothy whispered.

Ange said nothing. She held field-glasses. Watching the entrance to a local coffeehouse _,_ and mentally cataloging the men who entered and left.

"This is a crap assignment. Busy-work."

"Yes."

"So why are we doing it, then? Why doesn't Control let us go back to London?"

"There are legitimate concerns."

"Or put another way, Charlotte is more valuable than Beatrice."

"Yes."

Dorothy bristled.

"Do you really believe that?" Her voice was low, with more than a hint of danger at the edges of the words.

"No. Control does."

"And they want us out of the way, while Chise is having her little adventure."

"Yes."

Dorothy sighed.

"Try again. You're the one with contacts here. Get us transportation: a bus, a boat, a plane. Hell, a camel! I don't like the idea of Beato being alone, injured, in London. Like I said before, we can let Control punish us later. Let's just slip away. We're spies, we're supposed to be good at ...."

"Target spotted."

"Splendid," Dorothy snapped, expression very dark. "What a meaningful and deep contribution to the cause of the Commonwealth of Albion. Future generations will surely praise our efforts here today."

Ange glanced at Dorothy, expression neutral.

"Cynicism does not suit you, Dorothy."

"And cowardice doesn't suit you, _Ange,_ " she hissed in response.

Ange refused to rise to the bait, instead focusing on the mission. For what it was worth.

...

The kitchen filled with sharp, fragrant scents. On the stove-top, a spicy vegetable stew boiled in a tall iron pot. A steamer placed atop held couscous. A local specialty, Princess had obtained this recipe from a local shopkeeper, who had spoken flawless French. It had rapidly become a team favorite.

She sighed softly. The team was divided right now. She didn't know when they would be back together. However, the ingredients wouldn't keep for very long. At least Ange and Dorothy would have a good meal with her tonight.

Princess opened the oven to check on the bread. Nearly ready. As she closed the oven, she heard the front door of the house open.

"Welcome home!" she cried out.

There was no response, but she heard footsteps in the living-room, and then the dining room.

She pulled a frying pan down from a hook on the wall, placing it on the burner beside the pot. A choice cut of lamb was in the ice-box. She intended to serve it alongside the stew. Dorothy always complained if there wasn't a meat dish.

"I didn't expect you home so early," she continued.

The footsteps entered the kitchen. Princess smiled, and reached for a bottle of olive oil.

"I'm still working on dinner, but if you'd like ...."

A hand wrapped around her wrist. At first, she assumed it was Ange, being playful. She laughed softly. Then her arm was wrenched behind her back. Her forearm twisted painfully.

Before she could cry out in pain and surprise, a hand clamped over her mouth. Her legs were kicked out from under her, and she fell hard to the kitchen floor. Her assailant's knee drove into the small of her back. Princess screamed in fear and agony, the sound muffled by the hand that remained over her mouth.

She felt hot breath against her neck.

"I'm home," a voice whispered into her ear, lips just barely grazing her earlobe.

Princess froze. Her eyes went wide in abject terror. Her mind whirled.

"You know, this is a brilliant place to hide," the voice continued. "Out of the way. Near to the French quarter, and the town, but out of the prying eyes of neighbors."

Princess struggled to escape. Her attacker twisted her arm, hard, and pressed her knee into her back.

"Uh uh. Don't move. You know, as well as I do, that there's no one anywhere near here. How many hours will it be until your friends return? No one will hear you cry out, you know?"

Princess closed her eyes, straining to keep tears from leaking from them.

"Now, I'm going to move my hand away from your mouth. Remember what I just said? Make any sounds and I will give you a reason to scream."

Numbly, Princess nodded.

"Good girl."

The hand slid slowly back from Princess' lips, fingertips almost tenderly grazing her cheek.

" _Zelda_."

"Awww. Did you miss me? I know last time we met I swept you off your feet."

"Why ... how did you find us? Why are you here?"

"I'm a spy. Of _course_ I found you. And as to why ...."

She again twisted Princess' arm, drawing a cry of pain from her.

" _That_ is why," Zelda hissed, again mere inches from Princess' ear.

Zelda released Princess' arm, and she hurriedly moved it to a more natural position. She flexed her numb fingers, feeling sensation gradually return.

Then Zelda placed one hand on Princess' back, pressing down firmly. She shifted her weight, so her knee no longer pressed against Princess' body.

"I know what you're thinking right now. Can I slip away? Grab the frying pan? Maybe hurl the stew pot at her? Buy enough time to get out, and run to safety? Try it. Please? _Please_ try to escape. _Give me a reason_."

Princess shuddered, and did not move.

"Coward," Zelda spat.

She placed her free hand on Princess' side, just under her armpit. She ran her hand slowly down Princess' side.

"Just so there's no surprises."

She reached Princess' hip. and switched hands, to feel down Princess' other side. But this time, when she reached her hip, her hand continued to slide down. To Princess' thigh. Her fingertips brushed against the scar. Princess couldn't suppress a quiet whimper.

"Nicely healed. You'd barely even notice it. Our _company doctor_ is top-notch, after all."

Princess could do no more than hope that the others would return soon.

And then a wave of nausea hit her, as she felt Zelda's hand slide up her thigh, underneath her skirt. To her hip.

"So I am curious. Has Ange _taken_ you yet?"

"Please don't," Princess whispered.

"Oh, has she not? Will I be your first?"

Princess cried out, shuddering in abject revulsion.

Zelda laughed, removing her hand.

"Maybe later. I know, you must be so disappointed. To have to wait. Don't worry, the time will pass by so quick you won't even know it."

Princess gasped and started to struggle again, feeling the need to escape regardless of the possible consequences.

Zelda said nothing. She balled her fist and brought it down hard on the back of Princess' head. Her face hit the kitchen floor with a sharp crack, and she stopped moving.

Zelda sighed, and shifted her weight. She rolled Princess over. A cut over her eye was bleeding, and had left a pool of blood on the floor. Zelda placed a hand against Princess' chest, and nodded.

"Still breathing. Sleep tight, beauty," she whispered in a mocking tone.

...

Dorothy was smiling. She felt better. A little better. The mission was a piece of pie. A crap pie, but pie nevertheless. And then there was the thought of the meal that Princess had been talking about, and preparing, all day.

"Couscous night tonight, yeah?"

Ange nodded, with a faint smile.

"Yes. It has become a very pleasant tradition. Shame Beato and Chise will miss it."

Dorothy stiffened for a moment, but nodded.

"Yeah," she said, tone far lighter than she felt, "gotta be better than the slop she's eating at the doctor's, right?"

Ange nodded, and opened her mouth to say something else. Until they noticed the door to the white house. It was ajar.

"Say ... Ange. Did you leave the door open?"

They shared a glance.

"No. I do not believe that Princess would either."

Suddenly quiet, the girls tip-toed up the stairs, to the porch. Drawing their guns.

Ange peeked into the living room. The scent of burnt bread made her nose scrunch up. Normally the house smelt of fragrant spices and perfumes.

She pushed the door completely open slowly, aiming her gun into the living room. Then crept inside, followed shortly by Dorothy.

Ange motioned for her to check out the bedrooms. As she went, Ange moved into the dining room. Then the kitchen.

Smoke poured out of the oven. The stew-pot and steamer smelt burnt as well. She shut off the oven and stove, and glanced around.

There was a small pool of blood. She knelt down. Too small for a major injury. She told herself.

Just beside the blood was a small bit of cardboard.

"Study," Dorothy whispered.

Ange stood up, grabbing the cardboard as she did so. Dorothy noticed the blood on the floor.

" _Shit._ "

Ange nodded.

"What of the study?"

...

Princess' head throbbed. Ropes bit into her ankles and wrists. She lay spread-eagle on a coarse wooden table. Her dress was gone, and she wore only her bloomers and a camisole.

Her eyes opened slowly.

A bland ceiling, off-white without any particularly distinguishing features, was all that she saw.

Experimentally, she tugged at her bonds. They were solid.

She blinked, and shifted her weight, trying to sit up. The ropes around her wrists were short, not allowing her to move very far.

The room was mostly empty, as far as she could see. The table she was on was the only noticeable furniture. There was one crude, wooden door. She couldn't see the source of light, which was somewhere behind her. Even if she craned her neck back, she couldn't see anything other than featureless, white walls.

The door opened, and Princess looked up.

Zelda entered the room, and grinned.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully.

Princess fought back terror.

"Where am I?"

"Fair question," Zelda said.

She strolled over to the table, closing the door behind her. Reaching Princess' side, she placed her hand on Princess' bare knee.

Princess' skin crawled at Zelda's touch. Zelda seemed to notice, and laughed softly.

"I didn't think that it'd be a good idea to make it _too_ easy for Ange to find you," she said, running her hand slowly up Princess' thigh. "So despite you being troublesome even when out cold, I took us on a little trip. Welcome to Tangier."

When Zelda reached the bottom hem of Princess' bloomers, she smirked, but lifted her hand.

"Oh, don't worry. I haven't done anything to you. Yet. I wanted you fully aware of what was happening."

She stroked Princess' cheek with alarming tenderness.

Princess swallowed, and tried to squirm away from Zelda's touch.

Zelda laughed.

"Terror really brings out the blue of your eyes, did you know that?"

Princess closed them, prompting another laugh from Zelda.

"Now we wait. Ange will find us, of course. You being here will ensure that. In fact, I quite want her to. The only real question that I have ...."

Princess cringed, feeling Zelda's hot breath on her face. Felt Zelda's lips just barely graze the tip of her nose.

"Is whether it'd be more amusing to have you watch me murder her, or watch her mind collapse as I torture you to death."

...

"Do not touch it," Ange said quietly.

Upon the Wireless, folded open as though ready for use, sat two photographs.

One was Marilla, cloth tied over her mouth, and ropes binding her wrists together, a look of fear in her eyes.

The other was of Beatrice.

Her bodysuit was torn away from her torso, exposing her breasts and shoulders and arms.

Her right eye was blackened.

Her left cheek was cut, and stained with blood.

The gunshot wound was visible, the bandages having been torn away.

Bruises peppered her skin.

The shades of grey and black made every detail stand out in sickening clarity.

"They intend to provoke us," Ange whispered.

Dorothy said nothing.

Ange glanced at her. She was staring at the photograph of Beatrice.

Dorothy was not crying.

She did not look angry.

Did not look sad.

She was just ... staring, her eyes wide and glazed-over.

Empty.

"Thus, the dangers of a spy falling in love," Ange whispered.

Dorothy nodded.

Ange knelt down beside the Wireless. Examining it as closely as she could without touching it.

"Disabled," Dorothy managed to croak out.

"In a manner of speaking," Ange replied, standing up quickly. "I would advise that we leave the house."

Dorothy didn't need more than the tone of her voice. She turned and left the study at a rapid pace.

As they crossed the living room, they heard a ringing sound from the study.

Dorothy ran. She dove through the open front door. She felt more than heard the explosion behind her. Wood and glass and metal and porcelain flew overhead. She landed, face-first, in the dirt and sand.

Winded for only a moment, she pushed herself up to her knees, gasping.

Beside her, Ange was scrambling up to her feet.

Behind them the white house was engulfed in flame.


	10. Walk Across the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chise goes on the offensive.

Chise had no doubts. She knew where Marilla and Beatrice were being held. It was unthinkable to her that it could be coincidence.

As she ran from the company doctor, across low roofs and leaping over narrow alley-ways between buildings, she forced herself to enter a calm, prepared state.

She was going to be entering the enemy's domain. She was preparing herself to kill. To die if necessary. Nothing else mattered. All other thoughts were extraneous. Enter the warehouse. Incapacitate those that opposed her. Kill if necessary. If Marilla and Beatrice were in a place that they could flee, or hide, or be safe, and she had to sacrifice her life ... then she would do so without hesitation, a smile upon her face.

She arrived at the warehouse as a fog was beginning to roll in from the river. She shivered for just a moment, until she took a deep breath. Centered herself. She _had_ to be ready.

A car was pulling away from the warehouse. There were three occupants, all male.

_Thugs_.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance. She would have to let them leave.

She dropped down to the ground, landing in a three-point stance. She launched herself forward, drawing her katana. She was on the far side of the warehouse, the side she had not seen that day. There was a door here.

She tugged on it once. Locked. 

She took a deep breath.

Stepped back, crouching down.

And sprang forward.

Her left foot lashed out. It impacted the door, the entire force of her momentum focused on one point. The door buckled with a loud crack.

She landed gracefully on her feet, and pushed the wrecked door open.

A surprised man in a dark suit looked up at her. Before he could make a sound, or draw his revolver, she punched him square in the chest. He collapsed backward with a gasp, and did not stand back up.

The interior was smaller than Chise had expected. A wall ran down the middle. A few feet past the entrance, there was another wooden door, set into a brick wall.

She noticed a ring of keys hanging on the man's belt. She grabbed this, and found that a key fit into the lock. She turned it, and peeked inside.

...

Marilla had looked up when the door opened. She watched, a strange sense of hope growing in her soul. Two guards had shoved the young girl in, and pulled a burlap sack off her head.

"Becky?!"

She looked ... tired. And hurt. But it was her.

"Marilla?!"

"Touching," one thug spat. He pulled the ropes off Beatrice's wrists, and shoved her roughly into the empty cell.

"She dropped this."

He gestured with Beatrice's fountain pen.

"Almost tempted to let her keep it."

The other guard frowned.

"Nope. You know what the boss said. Any possessions ...."

"I know, I know," the guard grumbled.

The two men walked through the door, which they closed and locked.

Marilla waited just a moment.

"Becky? Are you okay?"

She strained to see into the cell she had been placed into.

"Never better," Beatrice quipped. "We're here to rescue you."

"Good job so far," Marilla replied. Beatrice laughed.

Marilla blinked, and her eyes went wide. _Wait._

" _We_. So Cheiko is with you?"

"Have you been hurt?"

Marilla frowned. She didn't answer the question. Did Cheiko not come? Had _she_ been hurt?

"No." she finally replied. "No, they didn't touch me. Said I was more useful as bait."

"Bait?"

"Yeah. He kept ranting on about how he had figured it out. How she was in both places. And I was gonna draw her out so he could get her."

"He? Her?"

"I only heard one name. The name of the girl he's after."

Beatrice gasped.

"What name?"

"Daisy. I don't know anyone by that name so I don't have any idea what he is on about. Do you know her?"

"Yeah. That's the name ...."

The wooden door opened again, and Beatrice stopped talking.

The two guards entered the corridor again. One smirked, his eyes glimmering with dark amusement. The other remained impassive.

"Boss wants to talk to you," the amused guard said, as they opened the door to Beatrice's cell. They shoved her back through the door they had entered.

Marilla watched as the door was closed. She waited uncertainly.

Then she heard a scream. Muffled by the door, and brick walls. But unmistakable.

She sat down on the cot. When she heard more ... she closed her eyes. Trying to block out the sounds. Not think about them.   
She swallowed, and was unable to hold back a sob.

After what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been minutes, the horrific noises from the other room stopped. What that meant Marilla couldn't imagine.

She heard the door shatter, and stood up. She heard what had to be the sound of a body falling. Her mind played one memory from her past. One vision of a little Japanese girl holding two clothes-irons beating down a man at least twice her size. Not breaking a sweat. Could this be ... now? Her?

She heard the door near to her cell open.

She shivered. Her eyes went wide.

The figure wore a shallow conical hat. The bottom half of her face was concealed. She wore a sleeveless black top. A black strap was wrapped around her right forearm. At her waist she wore pink and purple frills that hung down to her right knee. Armored skirting hung from her left hip. She wore knee length poofy pants and black leggings. Sandals with red straps, and grey stockings with a slot for the sandal-strap, were on her feet.

The figure half turned to her, and raised a finger to her covered mouth.

Marilla nodded, even as her lungs burnt with the desire to cry out.

She did move over to the heavy iron bars. She reached out with both hands. And the warrior shifted the sword from her right hand to her left. And reached out to grasp Marilla's hands.

Their eyes met. Marilla shivered again. Blinking. She tried not to let tears form, but she knew that was an impossibility. They remained like this for a long moment. The warmth and strength of the warrior's grasp filled Marilla with hope. Bars or no bars, she felt safe.

The door at the opposite end of the hall opened, and in a moment the warrior's hand was withdrawn. She darted back through the door.

Two guards entered. One held a tray with a wooden bowl, wooden spoon, and wooden mug. The other, a ring of keys.

They approached Marilla's cell, and she hurried back.

"Boss is happy. He's gonna let you have seconds," the guard with the keys said with a sneer.

The cell was unlocked, and the man with the tray entered. The other man chuckled as Marilla backed away further.

"You ain't afraid or anything, are ya?"

In the next moment, the warrior was in the corridor. Her sword flashed, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Marilla cried out, unable to stop herself. The man with the tray half-turned in surprise, and Marilla charged at him. Her shoulder hit the tray, which discharged its contents into his face.

He grunted, staggering backward. Chise's sword flashed again. The flat of the blade impacting the back of his neck with a cracking sound.

He collapsed.

Marilla practically leaped out, wrapping her arms around the warrior's neck tightly.

"Cheiko," she sobbed. Trembling. Unable, and unwilling, to hold back her tears any longer.

"Marilla, you are safe!"

"Becky is here. They took her ...."

Before she could complete the thought, the door was flung open. A gunshot rang out, and Chise reflexively twisted her sword. The bullet apparently missed.

Marilla cried out. Three guards were at the door. One with a revolver raised darted through. Two more, also with raised guns, waited on either side.

Chise disentangled herself from the girl's embrace and roughly grabbed Marilla's wrist, pushing her toward the door.

She had the presence of mind not to resist. Ignoring the pain in her wrist where Chise gripped her, she let herself be shoved through the doorway.

A second gunshot went off. Chise simply moved her sword, and there was a shower of sparks where the bullet hit the blade.

Chise released Marilla, gripping her sword in both hands. She considered, for a moment, charging. Three men, even with guns, were no match for her. She knew this. She had Marilla to worry about, though. Her safety was vital.

"Cheiko!"

Chise turned, and saw three men in the warehouse area, running in their direction. The other three men began charging down the corridor.

"Tch."

She slammed the door closed, and turned in time to see a man raise a revolver.

"Down!"

Marilla ducked just as the gun went off. As before, Chise's blade jolted, sparks raining.

Chise switched grips again. Her sword was in her right hand, held in front of them in anticipation of more shots. With her left she firmly gripped Marilla's forearm and pulled her up to her feet.

The door to the jail cells opened. Three thugs spilled through, with another three behind them, running down the corridor.

Chise spared only a moment to consider her options. It would have been possible to shove Marilla out to freedom. To wade in to the sea of men, fight against the tide to reach Beatrice. The girl _had_ to be here.

But.

Even she was not certain of victory against the odds that were mounting up. She could hear even more men shouting further down the hall. If her only consideration were rescuing Beatrice, she would have risked it.

"Run," she shouted, pushing Marilla through the doorway.

The older girl needed no more encouragement than that. She ran as quickly as she could. Faster than that, as Chise remained behind her, quite literally pushing her past her limit. She felt Chise tug her arm, redirecting her.

As she heard men shout behind them, and run out of the building, Chise guided them into a short, narrow alley-way. Then out into a wide, trafficked street.

A woman screamed. A shot rang out.

Marilla glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of two men in bowler hats, carrying revolvers.

Pedestrians were shouting, running, and there was a general sense of panic.

Again, Chise redirected her by pulling on her arm. Marilla hissed in pain. Chise's grip was not gentle. She forced herself to accept it.

They ducked in through another alleyway, to another street. Chise continued to push her.

It seemed to be an eternity of running. Marilla's breath burned in her lungs. Her face was red. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt on the verge of collapse. Chise's fingers digging into her forearm made her keep moving. She placed all her trust and hope on the young Japanese girl.

"Stop," Chise hissed.

Gratefully, Marilla stopped running. Panting, she glanced around. It was a side-street, like so many others.

She allowed Chise to drag her into a blind alleyway, and behind a stack of crates. She tried to ignore the stench, and sacks of rubbish laying haphazard in a pile along one wall.  
Chise crouched. Marilla collapsed against her, wrapping her arms around Chise's shoulders.

"Quiet," Chise whispered sharply.

Marilla stopped breathing. She closed her eyes, and focused on obeying Chise. Obeying her Cheiko.

After a moment, she felt the tension leave Chise's body. She opened her eyes and gasped in a deep breath. The smell didn't matter.

Chise cupped Marilla's cheek. Now, her touch was gentle. So very gentle. Marilla shivered. Chise lifted her face, and looked into her eyes. That gaze sent an electric thrill down Marilla's spine.

"Cheiko," she whispered.

"You are free, Marilla."

Marilla blinked, a look of uncertainty crossing her face.

"But ... Becky ...."

"I shall worry about her, Marilla. You needn't."

Marilla gazed into Chise's eyes for a long moment, before nodding.

Chise pulled her hand back, and shrugged out of Marilla's embrace. The young woman remained crouched as Chise stood, and glanced out into the street. She looked up at her. She shivered.

"It is safe. The fog is thick, and will allow us to escape notice."

Marilla nodded, but remained where she was.

Chise turned back to her. She sheathed her sword, and pulled the mask down from her face. She was smiling. It was a weary expression, but genuine. And every fear, every doubt, every question and uncertainty that Marilla had felt over the last year melted away into nothingness.

Chise reached her hand down. Marilla grasped it in both of hers, and let herself be pulled up to her feet. She looked down into Chise's eyes.

The Japanese girl, looking up at her, felt heat rise to her face. Her cheeks turned red.

Marilla laughed. And Chise's smile widened.


	11. To Lose Beauty in Terror pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, deeper in the warehouse: Beatrice and her fate.

Frankie was wiping down his cane with a handkerchief.

The tall thin man snapped one last photograph, and then retrieved the undeveloped film from the camera. He began to disassemble it, and return it to its leather carrying-case.

The fat man leered at the girl still shackled to the chair.

Her right eye was blackened.

A nasty livid cut ran along her left cheek, which was stained with mingled blood and tears.

Her naked torso was peppered with bruises.

She was drenched in sweat.

Her bodysuit had been ripped down as far as her waist, the pants intact but stained with blood and sweat.

She breathed in heavy, labored gasps. Her head lulled forward. Her eyes were closed.

Frankie glanced back at her, expression neutral.

"I'm done here," he announced.

The fat thug unlocked and opened the door. He gestured, and the two thugs walked through.

He gestured to the guard, sitting at the table on the other side of the door. He stood and walked into the room.

"Take her back to her cell. I want to keep her. She could prove to be useful. Or, at least, entertaining."

The guard nodded to acknowledge the order. Frankie stopped in the door-frame, and turned back with a grin.

"She's no threat though, so there's no real rush."

He giggled, turned, and pranced out the door. It was closed and locked behind him.

The guard stared at the closed door for a moment.

When he turned around, Beatrice's eyes were open. She was staring at him. He looked at her for a long moment. Looked into her eyes.

"No threat," he said softly.

He walked over to the table. Beatrice's eyes followed him every step. She turned her head to continue tracking him.

"This is why I hate working with amateurs."

She watched as he picked up the fountain pen. He regarded it for a moment, before tossing it back on the table. Then he picked up the key-ring.

He turned to her, and knelt down at her right side.

"I've seen that look in your eyes before, you know."

He unlocked and opened the shackle. Beatrice moved her leg, twisting her foot.

"Backed into a corner. Battered. Dignity stolen from you. You feel like you've nothing left to lose."

Beatrice said nothing.

He stood up, and walked around, behind the chair, to the other side. He knelt down and unfastened that shackle.

Beatrice continued to watch, her expression cold. She shifted as her leg was freed, as before flexing her foot.

"My sister's about your age. She's the sweetest thing. Still a little girl in so many ways. So innocent, so pure."

Beatrice remained silent. Her cold gaze held him, as he stood up.

"She loves going to school. Loves getting attention from all the little boys in her class. She's just old enough to understand it, but not old enough to _really_ know what it means."

Beatrice stared at him.

"I don't think I could look her in the eye if I had to hurt you."

Beatrice just stared.

He sighed, and unlatched the shackle on her left wrist. She balled her hand into a fist, twisting and flexing it.

"So just be a good girl, okay? Don't try anything."

He walked around to her right side, again behind the chair.

"We'll wait here a few minutes, until the boss goes home. Make things a little less painful, maybe?"

He reached down and unlocked the shackle over her right wrist. Again, she flexed her fingers, and then rubbed her wrists.

He turned his back on her, taking a few steps away from the chair.

It was the moment she needed.

Despite the agony, the humiliation, the exhaustion, she pulled herself up out of the chair. With a surge of adrenaline, she grasped at an object on the table, before dropping to her knees with a cry of pain.

The man turned slowly to face her. He didn't look surprised, nor did he look the least concerned.

He shook his head.

"Of all things to grab. I'd at least have gone for a wrench or a hammer. Something heavy like that. Or a screwdriver. A knife? Riding crop? Something that even you could make use of."

He took a step toward her. She scrambled back, holding the fountain pen in front of her. Brandishing it as though it were a deadly weapon.

"You intend to stain my suit? Stab me with it? Oh, that might hurt. If you can do it with enough strength to penetrate. I don't think you could on a good day. Maybe if you reached my eye you'd have a chance, but I won't let that happen."

He took another step toward her, and she scrambled back again,

"On the other hand, I know for a fact that I can hurt you. Badly. The boss wants you alive, so I have to restrain myself. I doubt you can take much more abuse anyway."

Beatrice twisted the pen.

There was a loud, echoing explosion.

There was a flash of flame that erupted from the end of the pen.

The man blinked in shock, and looked down at himself. A stain was spreading along his suit.

A red one.

He glanced back at her. For a moment, he almost looked impressed.

Then he collapsed in a heap.

Beatrice dropped the pen-gun, and gasped. She forced herself to her feet, groaning in agony.

There was at least one more guard. He may have heard the shot. She had to get away. Somehow. To somewhere.

She staggered over to the body. It was a risk. He might not be dead. But she had to take that risk. There was one locked door. There was one ring of keys.

His eyes were open. His mouth was slack. He was not moving. He would never move again. Blood was draining out of his body.

Beatrice grimaced, but knelt down beside him. She grabbed the key-ring. She noticed that a revolver hung at his hip. She grabbed it.

It was heavier than she expected. A second, stubbier barrel was beneath the main one, and a small lever was on the top of the hammer.

Beatrice remembered Dorothy mentioning something about guns like this. She took a moment to examine it.

Pulling back the hammer, she saw that there was, indeed, a tenth round in addition to the 9 bullets in the revolver cylinder: A shotgun round.

She nodded, and carefully let the hammer come to rest.

She stood, holding the gun in front of her. She stumbled to the door, and with her free hand, slipped a key into the lock. Turning the key resulted in a satisfying click. She pulled the knob and tugged on the door. It opened.

She peeked out the door. There was a commotion at the far end of the small room. A guard was rushing through the open door, with two more on either side. All three held revolvers.

She considered, just for a moment, shooting at them.

A tickling of fear at the back of her neck made her turn away. Hastily, she pushed on the door beside her. It was unlocked.

The space beyond, as she thought, was a large and open one. A warehouse, which had been altered. In addition to the jail that she was now leaving, there was a wall running down the middle. With doors. Doors that were beginning to open.

Her eyes went wide, and she looked for somewhere to hide.

In one corner of the warehouse was a space set apart with tall movable partitions. A wooden desk and chair sat there.

Hastily, Beatrice scrambled over, ducking down behind the desk. Holding the gun at the ready.

She heard the shouts of several guards, and heavy footsteps. She peeked up, to see at least half a dozen run through the door she had just left.

Had she stayed to fight, they would've come up behind her.

She shivered. The air was cold on her bare torso. She had to ignore this. Her priority had to be freedom, not comfort. Not modesty.

She ducked back down, waiting for a minute. When she heard no more guards, she stood up, slowly and carefully, holding the gun at the ready.

She noticed a worn brown duffle coat hanging on a peg. She set the gun and key-ring down long enough to grab it and slip it on. One toggle on the front was broken, and one pocket had been ripped away at some point. Still, it was better than nothing.

She hurriedly fastened the remaining toggles, and picked up the gun and keys.

She felt warm. Somewhat safer. A little stronger. Adrenaline dulled her pain, at least for the moment. She didn't know if it would last, or for how long. So, she realized, she had to escape. Quickly.

To one side, there was a window that led outside. A possible escape route.

She crept back into the warehouse. The door she had gone through was now closed. She ignored this, turning instead to a heavy wooden double door

It was secured by a padlocked chain. None of the keys on the ring fit the lock. Her hand went to her hip ... before she remembered that her tool and lockpick set was still lying on a table in the doctor's office.

She hissed a quiet curse.

Beatrice returned to the desk, and tugged at the drawers. Also locked. Again, the keys would not fit any of the locks. She set the now-useless ring of keys down on the desk top.

She eyed the window. Then glanced at the chair behind the desk. For a moment she considered trying to shatter the window with the chair. She dismissed it as too awkward, especially in her current condition.

She tugged at the window. It was shut fast. Nailed in place, so it would be impossible to open.

She sighed, and closed her eyes. She had to think. How could she get out? With a window her only means ....

A window.

A _glass_ window.

Her eyes went wide. She swallowed.

She had never tried it before, but theoretically ....

She pulled the collar of the coat away from her throat, and adjusted the dials.

She took a deep breath.

And opened her mouth.

She sang one note. Sustaining it. A note that she didn't hear. But she did feel it. Felt it vibrating in her chest. Her throat. She felt the mechanism inside her strain as she sustained the note. Her eyes watered. She shivered.

And then the window juddered, cracked, and shattered.

Hastily, she adjusted the dials, and took in deep, cleansing breaths.

Then she climbed out the broken window, turned, and ran.

 


	12. Mirror Maze

The white house had been a total loss. The fire brigade had focused on preventing the fire spreading to the nearby palm grove, and from there to town. Ange and Dorothy, not wanting to answer difficult questions, had slipped away.

They went to town, to the café that served as their meeting place. The Commonwealth had eyes in the area. Their contact would arrive soon enough.

Dorothy sat in silence. In her hand was the photograph of Beatrice in the doctor's office. She stared at it. Her eyes were wide, glazed over. Empty. Shocked. Just like when she had seen that _other_ photo of her.

"I believe it is safe to say that our mission here is compromised," Ange said quietly.

Dorothy nodded her head.

"So much for safely lying low," she whispered bitterly.

"Shall we speculate on the person involved?"

Dorothy frowned, and placed the photo in a pocket: "It would have to be a spy."

"Yes."

"Clever and efficient."

"Yes."

"Brutal. With sufficient confidence to linger long enough in the house to set those explosives."

"And in possession of photographs taken in London, not long before."

"I can think of a couple."

"We are not facing a legitimate agent, you understand."

"More 'gentleman's' agreements. As though spies are ever gentlemen."

"Yes. This is foreign soil. Watch. Wait. Report. Do not act, or at least not in a way that the diplomats could not deny."

"Just like at the company doctor." Dorothy spat.

"So who would break such rules, and who would be certain enough of her ability to maneuver quickly?"

Dorothy sighed, not willing to say the name that oozed up in her memory.

Ange tossed the bit of cardboard she had found in the house onto the table between them.

"What's that?"

"Look."

Dorothy picked it up. It was a matchbook cover.

"Hotel Americana. Tangier. It's almost like ...."

She blinked.

"Someone wants us to follow them?" Ange suggested.

Dorothy nodded.

"And we must dutifully leap into the trap. For the sake of the Princess, and the Clockwork Girl."

"That's it, I fucking quit." Dorothy snapped, bitterly. "Next time I see L, I'm gonna tell him to shove this spy job so far up his ass he won't be able to put on a hat for a week."

...

Zelda wore a dark blue suit, waistcoat, white silk blouse, and well-pressed pants. An ascot was tied around her blouse collar. Her patent leather shoes had a freshly-buffed shine.

A waitress, a pretty young European girl, blushed as Zelda glanced in her direction.

"Welcome ... to the Hotel Americana Restaurant. Umm, can I ...."

"Don't worry. I'm meeting someone. I'll see myself to their table."

"Ah! Yes ... yes ma'am."

She chuckled, and strolled over to a table occupied by a man in a white suit, with a light red carnation in his lapel. She sat down opposite him, and crossed her legs.

The waitress scampered over to her, and placed a menu in front of her. Then she gave an awkward curtsy, and scampered away again.

"Report," the man said, in a deep voice.

Zelda kept her eyes on the waitress, who was obviously trying not to be seen looking in their direction.

"She is secure," Zelda replied in a serious voice, not matching the thin smile on her face.

He nodded.

"Her condition?"

She turned her attention to the man, her smile vanishing.

"Physically? Well enough."

He glanced at her, with a frown.

"Mentally?"

"She may have gotten the impression that I intend to ravage her, and then torture her to death as Ange watches."

He was silent for a moment. Zelda's grin returned.

"I am not certain I approve. This not personal."

"Of course it's personal," she said, grin melting. "Had Ange done her job right in the first place we'd be dining in Westminster, not having this conversation in Morocco."

"Keep your priorities straight, Zelda. Charlotte is a useful tool to our faction."

"And to me. Terrified, she is putty in my hands. I can make her do anything that I desire, if she fears that I can do anything _to her_ that I wish."

He looked dubious, but did not press the issue. She turned her gaze back to the waitress, who was leading a young couple to a table.

"And your ally in Europe?"

"He's not an ally. He's a tool, just like Charlotte."

"You've invested quite heavily in this _tool_."

She kept her eyes on the girl, but a frown darkened her expression.

"Not at all. He had a foolish plan, but one sufficient to draw the pigeons from the bush. I simply enabled him to enact it. Along with giving him enough rope that, once he ceases to be useful, a simple tug will leave him hanging."

"We've lost good agents already in service to this foolish plan."

"We've lost weaklings," she replied, bitterly. "They'd cause us trouble sooner or later, it's as well they're gone now. Save us future hassle."

"How am I supposed to report this?"

She turned her gaze back to him with cold, piercing eyes.

"Glowingly. Because we both know that you lack the _balls_ to stand here in my place with Ange coming to kill you for taking her Princess from her."

He was unable to suppress a look of surprise.

"Or do you deny that?"

He didn't say anything. Zelda smirked.

"I'll advise the Circus to approve your plan," he finally stuttered.

"Thank you," she said, turning her attention away from the man. She didn't see the waitress.

"If you fail ...."

"Then I'm dead," she shrugged indifferently. "It won't be at _your_ hands."

He stood up without another word, and strode off.

Zelda sighed, and glanced at the menu.

Out of nowhere, the waitress swooped over to her table.

"Can I ... can I help you now, ma'am?"

"My friend had to leave. Pity. Whisky sour."

"Will there ... will there be anything else, ma'am?"

Zelda looked up at her. Her eyes lingered, and the faintest of smiles crossed her lips. The girl blushed, and shifted her weight nervously.

"Perhaps. Get that drink out to me."

"Yes ma'am!"

...

Princess' eyes fluttered open. She had at least been given the dignity of a cell: a small room, little more than a closet with a cot. The heavy wooden door was securely locked. She had already tried tugging and pushing on it.

A small tin plate sat on the floor. It held a bowl of water, and a hunk of hard, tasteless bread.

She eased herself off the bed, and knelt down. A small flap at the base of the door permitted the tray to slide in or out.

She took the bowl of water, careful not to spill any, and set it aside. Then she grabbed the bread, and tossed it carelessly to one side.

Then she carefully opened the flap. Glancing out, she could just barely see a short corridor leading to another wooden door. Only one, as far as she could see.

She allowed the flap to close, and stood up. She examined the door more closely. There was no keyhole. The knob was loose, attached to the door but not to the bolt or locking mechanism.

She knelt again, and glanced out through the flap. It was just large enough to allow the tray to slide through. She might be able to reach out, but didn't try. It was a possibility to remember.

She heard the door to the corridor being unlocked, and she closed the flap. She heard the outer door open. She heard footsteps come up to the door, then stop. The cell door did not open, and there were no other sounds.

She took a deep breath, and pulled the flap open as quietly as she could.

She could tell that someone was standing by the door; She could see the shadow.

"Clever thinking, Your Highness." It was a male voice. She didn't recognize it.

"I am afraid, however, that it won't do you any good. I didn't leave the key in the lock, so even if there were a keyhole on that side you couldn't push it through. I read that particular novel too."

He chuckled.

"I fail to understand why you are doing this. Are you not an agent of the Commonwealth?"

"You answer your own question. I trust you will understand if I don't go into more detail."

...

The man in the beige coat and grey fedora approached their table. A yellow carnation was pinned in his lapel. He sat himself down without the formality of asking.

" _A. D_."

"We have been attacked."

The man said nothing.

"They destroyed the wireless," Dorothy said. "This is the only way we can contact you."

"Continue."

" _P_. has been taken," Ange said evenly.

"I see."

She glanced at him.

"Do you have more information for us? Who could have done this, how could they have known?"

"We have theories."

Ange looked at Dorothy.

"Let's hear them," Dorothy said, an edge of impatience to her voice.

"Let's just speculate for a moment. Who could desire _P._ to vanish?"

Ange didn't say anything. Dorothy sighed.

"Who would desire communication to be severed? It is .. convenient timing. Especially in light of your earlier attempt to flee. To 'London.' "

"What?" Dorothy said. Heat rising in her voice.

"You send away the amateur and the foreigner. The Princess vanishes. The wireless is destroyed."

"And we are here to report it," Dorothy snapped.

"Yes. We appreciate this. We do have ... further questions."

Ange and Dorothy both noticed the people around them started to move. Surrounding them.

"What is this," Ange asked.

"We've been instructed to detain you, upon suspicion of betrayal."

"What?!" Dorothy was livid.

Ange slipped her hand into her pocket. She placed her other hand on Dorothy's forearm.

"Come quietly with us, and there will be no trouble."

Ange rose to her feet. She brought her knee up against the table. It tipped up toward the man, who fell backwards, toppling out of his chair. A green glow surrounded Ange and Dorothy, and she kicked up into the sky.

Gunshots went off, bullets buzzing past. Missing Dorothy by inches, She cried out in surprise, grasping Ange's arm with both hands, as the two sailed through the air surrounded by the Cavorite radiation.

"Why ... are they shooting?!"

Ange didn't answer.

Dorothy glanced back, and reached into a concealed flap in her dress. Withdrawing a small revolver.

"Do not fight," Ange said.

"But they are shooting at us!"

"Yes. Let them. We shall flee, while they make blindingly obvious targets of themselves to the local authorities."

Ange kicked off in a different direction, briefly coming down to land on a flat rooftop, before skipping off the roof into a blind alley.

"Marrakesh gate. 15 minutes."

"I'll wait there until you show up."

"If I am not there in 15 minutes I will never show up."

Dorothy was silent a moment, then nodded.

Ange kicked back up into the air.

...

The narrow, crowded streets of the old medina offered both hindrance and safety. Dorothy made her way slowly through the press of people. Nearly every person was a local. The few Europeans were focused on the shops, or the outdoor stalls. This was the true heart of the city. The oldest district. Locals saw it as their domain, and foreigners saw it as a tourist destination. Right now, It served as a maze that Dorothy had to navigate. A single wrong turn could lead to capture, or worse.

She glanced behind her. Three men, very obviously Europeans, pressed their way into the narrow road. Two wore bowler hats and dark suits. The third wore a light suit, and grey fedora.

She suddenly felt exposed. Any moment, she expected to hear a shout from behind her.

She ducked down abruptly behind a street-side stall. An old woman sitting behind it looked down at her with a look of surprise.

Dorothy raised one finger to her lips. The woman frowned, and glanced, knowingly, at the men that were slowly moving toward them, wading through the stream of people.

Then she looked back down at Dorothy, an eyebrow arched. A smirk crossed her lips.

Dorothy frowned. She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a franc note of substantial value.

The old woman's smirk widened into a grin. She reached down, but Dorothy pulled the money back out of her reach, a smirk of her own crossing her lips. The woman chuckled and nodded.

Dorothy felt a little of the tension leave her shoulders, but she wasn't safe yet. After what felt like hours, she heard the three men pass by the stall.

"... be obvious. She can't have gone far."

"Oi oi, gentlemen! Won't you stop here and gaze upon what I have to sell!"

Dorothy blanched. She reached for her revolver.

"We're not here to shop," an arrogant voice replied.

"Oh come come! You cannot find wares of this nature in foggy, rainy, Perfidious Albion! See the quality of the weave? The finest baskets, the finest rugs ...."

"She's gonna make a scene," one of the men muttered.

"We said no," another voice snapped, arrogantly.

The old woman grumbled, but just for a moment.

Dorothy heard the men move on, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Best place to hide is in plain sight. Best way to escape notice is to make a scene," she whispered to herself.

The old woman laughed, and glanced down to where Dorothy was hiding.

"Stupid English," she said in French.

"Yeah," Dorothy replied in the same language, with a bitter frown.

The woman held out her hand, and Dorothy, reluctantly, parted with the money.

...

Ange was already waiting when Dorothy slipped out of the Marrakesh gate. She glanced in her direction, and without waiting for her to reach her, began to walk briskly through the street. From time to time, Ange would change her route, glancing back to make sure Dorothy was following.

And Dorothy would, likewise, glance over her shoulder. She saw two Europeans, one wearing a bowler, the other a shapeless, wide-brimmed hat. They were obviously following her, but she couldn't tell if they had spotted Ange.

This continued through the streets of Casablanca, winding their way from the old quarter to the new, Europeanized center of the city. Finally, Ange ducked into the bus station. Dorothy followed.

She saw Ange at the counter, and moved in her direction. The European with the wide-brimmed hat entered shortly afterward. The bowler hat was nowhere to be seen.

"Two for Marrakesh, next bus," Ange ordered, loudly and in English.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," the clerk at the counter replied.

Dorothy edged up to the counter, outside of the queue, and glanced back at the European. He frowned, and ducked hurriedly back out, into the street.

...

"We were followed," Dorothy whispered.

She sat beside Ange on a bench seat in a rickety bus.

"Yes," Ange said.

"So you did notice."

"Of course. Those agents are now reporting to Control that we are on a bus bound for Marrakesh."

"I wondered about that. Good dodge. I guess we're gonna hop out and change course for Tangier?"

Ange nodded, and opened the window beside their seat.

Dorothy glanced around at the others in the bus. Most were locals. There was one dark-skinned man, perhaps Nigerian, in a grey suit. A briefcase rested on his lap. Could he, or any of the locals, be agents? Impossible to say.

She turned back to see Dorothy scramble out of the window. The men behind them exclaimed something in surprise. Dorothy hurriedly scooted over to the window.

Ange, glowing green with Cavorite radiation, held onto the luggage rack on the bus roof. She frowned and motioned to Dorothy. The older girl took a deep breath, and began climbing out as well.

"Think thin," Ange deadpanned as Dorothy grunted, squeezing out through the window. She gave Ange a glare, before pulling herself mostly out of the window. She grasped Ange's leg and the Cavorite glow spread across her body. Ange kicked away from the bus, and the two shot up into the dry, cloudless blue sky.

...

It was a hot evening. The sea air had only served to make it humid. Muggy even. Zelda stood on a balcony, overlooking the bay. A cigarette smoldered between her lips. She drew smoke into her lungs, and held it there for a moment, before breathing it out in slow, languid wisps.

She dropped the cigarette and crushed it out with her bare heel.

She wore her white blouse, the middle few buttons fastened to hold it together. The rest of her suit lay on the floor of her room, draped across a black-and-white waitress' uniform. She turned and strolled back inside.

The girl lay on her back. Her eyes were closed. Her breasts, barely covered by the silk sheets of the bed, gently rose and fell with her soft, even breath.

Zelda sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached down, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along the girl's skin. It was soft, and lightly tanned. She was pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty: Dark curly hair, pale green eyes, curvy without having excess flesh.

Zelda idly pushed the silk sheets down her body, exposing her to view, and to further soft caresses.

She hadn't expected this particular turn of events, but she had no regrets.

The girl mumbled softly as Zelda's fingertips teased a particularly sensitive part of her body.

Zelda chuckled.

"Abigail," Zelda whispered.

The girl's eyelids fluttered open.

"Ahmnnn. Zelda," she murmured, a smile forming on her lips.

"The service was adequate," Zelda said with a smirk.

Abigail giggled. "You in town a while?" she asked, gently running her hand along Zelda's thigh.

"Alas, I must leave tomorrow. My sister lies on the point of death."

She sat up, eyes widening in surprise.

"Oh no! And you ... you spent your time here, with me?"

Zelda shrugged, and cupped the girl's cheek in her palm.

"One does want a moment of light even at such a time."

The girl smiled, an expression painted with sad undertones.

"In any case, she desires to see Marseille one last time, before she passes on. The poor dear."

"Will you come back to Tangier?" Her voice was high pitched, eager and expectant.

Zelda laughed, leaning down to lightly press her lips to the girl's, flicking her upper lip with the tip of her tongue as she pulled back.

"I shall make a point of it, darling. Just be sure to remember me, yes?"

"Oh of course, Zelda! You have made quite an ... impression."

The girl's cheeks turned red as Zelda smiled.

"I am glad."


	13. In the Fog

The streets were quiet. Dimly it and close with a thick heavy bank of fog. And cold. Very cold. It felt like winter. Or was that all inside her head?

She ran. Beatrice vaguely knew she was in Whitechapel. She remembered in general terms where the warehouse had been. She had no idea what direction the window she exited faced. If she was moving north, she would find London Hospital, or at least a more heavily populated street. The sky above was a lead-grey sheet. No stars were visible.

She vaguely heard gunshots in the distance. She glanced over her shoulder. No one. Just the heavy fog.

She kept running. Her breathing became labored. Her legs ached. Her heart raced.

When she was on the verge of collapse she ducked into a blind alley, staggered to the brick wall at the far end, placed her hands against it, leaned over, and vomited.

Every bruise ached. The cut stung. The bullet wound throbbed. There was a stabbing pain in her lower abdomen. She prayed that her ribs weren't broken.

She coughed, wincing as the act sent a fresh wave of agony through her body.

Her mind whirled. She had been weak. Hadn't been able to resist in any meaningful way. Thrown about, pushed, shoved. Until finally she had been able to do something. Kill.

Another heave, dry and painful.

She had killed. Taken a life.

She coughed again. No. Had she not, she would have been killed. She told herself she was lucky to be alive.

She swallowed. Her mouth tasted like a sewer.

She managed to push off and move away from the wall. She wiped her mouth and chin with the sleeve of her coat, and staggered away, only to collapse to the ground with a cry of pain. There was a pile of bags nearby. Bags of rubbish. She crawled over to them.

She heard another gunshot, far in the distance. Her brain told her, _hide!_

She pulled the bags close to her, curling up behind them. She made herself as hidden as she could possibly be.

Her eyes were heavy. They closed. Everything went dark. Mercifully she did not dream.

.

She felt a nudge. Oblivion tightened into mere darkness. Darkness into a faint red light.

Another nudge, against her thigh.

She opened her eyes.

A man stood over her. Looking down at her with tired grey eyes. He held a bag of rubbish in his hand. His hair was messy, greying brown.

"Alive?"

Beatrice blinked, and shrugged.

"Close enough," the man said. "Hurt."

He hadn't asked it as a question.

Beatrice nodded.

He set the bag back down, and knelt down beside her. She looked up at him. He frowned.

"That wasn't an accident."

Beatrice shook her head weakly.

"You need help. I've a ... a friend. You be alright here?"

Beatrice responded by slipping the revolver out of the waistband of what remained of her bodysuit.

"That'll do," the man said with a very faint grin.

He pulled a small silver flask out of his back pocket, and handed it to her.

Beatrice regarded it cautiously.

"Gin. Figure it might be a help."

Beatrice took the flask, giving him a weak smile.

"Thanks," she tried to say. It made her throat hurt.

"Be back soon as I can do," he said as he stood up.

She nodded, forcing the smile to stay on her lips.

He turned, and ran out of the alley.

She managed to pull herself up to her feet. She registered the stench around her. Figured at least part of it _was_ her. She walked to the entrance to the alleyway. The street had light traffic. Pedestrians mostly. Workmen bundled up against an unseasonably cold spring morning. No signs, or indications of where in London she had ended up.

She sat down behind a stack of crates, and pushed the revolver back into her pants. She opened the flask, placed it against her lips, and tilted her head back.

The sharp, juniper flavor helped to wash the taste of terror and blood and vomit out of her mouth. It burned down her throat, spreading warmth out through her body and limbs.

She blinked.

"Sorry, Doro," she whispered.

She took another drink, and sighed. It dulled the agony.

Then she screwed the lid back on the flask, and shoved it in her coat-pocket. She considered closing her eyes, but decided against it.

..

Some time later, she heard someone enter the alley. The man from earlier glanced around the crates.

"She's here," he said.

A girl, around Beatrice's age or perhaps a little younger, peeked around the crates. She had pale blue eyes and dirty blonde hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. As soon as she saw Beatrice, her eyes went wide. Her face turned bright red.

And Beatrice gasped in surprise.

" _Josie_?"

The man blinked.

"You know each other?"

"Yeah .. used to work where she does."

"The laundry mill," Josie hastily stated, her face turning a shade redder.

Beatrice's confusion was quickly forgotten, as the girl ran over to her, kneeling down beside her.

"Mother of God, what did he do to you?"

"I didn't touch her," the man said defensively.

She glanced over her shoulder.

"I know that," she snapped, before turning back to Beatrice.

She reached out. Her fingertips were cold against Beatrice's injured cheek, but very soft.

"Can ... can you walk, Becky?"

"Yeah," Beatrice managed. She tried to stand, but found her legs wouldn't quite cooperate. Josie and the man both moved to help her up.

After a moment, her legs regained their strength.

"Okay, come with us. I will ... I'll help you."

Beatrice nodded.

...

Everyone they passed seemed to look at Beatrice. She could sense pity. Shock. Distaste. She tried to ignore it. Tiring quickly, she ended up placing an arm over Josie's shoulder. The girl didn't complain.

Eventually they reached a boarding house. Beatrice didn't recognize the neighborhood. The three of them entered the front door, and walked up a flight of stairs.

Josie's flat was a sparse, if modern, design: one main room with a bed, table, and chair, a small kitchen area along one wall with a sink and a small gas stove, and a door leading to a washroom.

Josie guided them to her bed, and Beatrice sat down with a sigh.

"Figured you were about the same size, so clothes are good. You've some experience dealing with ... well, this kind of thing."

Josie nodded.

"Yeah. I can handle it from here. Thanks Bruce."

She turned to him, and kissed his cheek.

"Figure to see you tomorrow. You'll be busy today I guess."

"Yeah," she muttered.

"Well. Hope to see you better tomorrow then."

Beatrice nodded. Her second (third? fourth?) wind was rapidly draining. She barely registered the man leaving.

"I'll draw a bath. Get rid of those rags."

Beatrice nodded, and Josie went to the washroom. She heard water flowing. Weakly, she undid the first toggle on her coat. She sighed, not feeling up to more, and settled for placing the revolver and the flask of gin on the table beside the bed.

When Josie returned, she clicked her tongue.

Beatrice shrugged.

"Okay. Bath's ready. Just get you ready."

Josie undid the second toggle, and eased the coat off her body.

She gasped in shock.

"Bastard," she whispered.

"Yeah," Beatrice managed.

Josie took a very deep breath.

"Stand up."

She managed to pull herself to her feet without collapsing, and leaned against Josie as she eased the tattered remnants of her bodysuit off of her.

Her legs had minor bruising, but nowhere near that of her upper body. A quick glance at Beatrice's inner thighs answered the other chilling question Josie had. She sighed in relief. She hadn't experienced that horror at least.

Josie placed an arm around Beatrice's back, and helped her into the washroom. A porcelain tub was filled with steaming water.

"I'll help," Josie offered. Beatrice didn't refuse, allowing Josie to set her down on the edge of the tub.

Josie dunked a washrag into the tub, and rubbed scented soap over it. Then she gingerly rubbed the rag over Beatrice's face.

She hissed in pain as the soapy water touched the cut on her cheek, but still it felt good: The hot soapy water, the gentleness of Josie's touch.

After wiping her face, she gingerly touched Beatrice's neck with a finger.

"Um. Can I ...."

"Yeah. Won't rust."

Josie frowned, but carefully wiped down Beatrice's neck and throat. Cringing as she felt the way the skin and the metal band and the mechanism in Beatrice's throat interacted.

Beatrice closed her eyes. Sighing. Josie's gentle touch continued down her shoulders and arms, and then down her chest. Around, between, under, and over her breasts. And gingerly around the wound (which was at least not bleeding).

"Arms," Josie whispered. Beatrice lifted them, allowing Josie to wash her armpits and sides.

"Stand?"

Beatrice nodded, and with a slight wince, rose to her feet. Josie guided her a step away from the edge of the tub, and stood behind her.

Starting at her shoulders, she rubbed the soapy rag down her back. Beatrice shivered.

She opened her eyes when she felt Josie lift her hand from her body.

"Umm. Did you want to ... I mean, if you don't want me to continue?"

"It's okay. Feels good."

She felt the rag gingerly run down her lower back. Beatrice sighed, again closing her eyes. She had to reach out to steady herself against the wall.

Josie ran the rag down her rear, and the back of her thighs. Down her legs. Then she moved around to kneel in front of Beatrice.

She shivered again. The soapy rag ran over her hips, and the side and front of her thighs.

Josie hesitated a moment.

"You ... have a sweetheart," she asked, as she tentatively ran the rag along Beatrice's inner thighs.

Beatrice shifted her hands to Josie's shoulders.

"Yeah."

"Tell me about him."

"Her," Beatrice corrected.

Josie stopped what she was doing. For a moment.

"What's _she_ like, then?"

As Beatrice talked, Josie ran the soapy rag between her legs.

"She's beautiful. Sweet. Mature. Well, when she wants to be. Pretty long brown hair. Lavender eyes. Can get lost in ...."

Beatrice drew in a sharp gasp of air, and shuddered.

"Sorry," Josie whispered, pulling her hand away from Beatrice's body.

"Is okay. Feels nice to be clean."

Josie finished off by gently cleaning Beatrice's feet, then she helped her climb into the tub.

Beatrice sighed very deeply, closing her eyes, and allowing herself to sink down in the soothingly hot water, down to her chin.

"What's her name?"

Beatrice opened her eyes, glancing up at Josie.

"Hmm?"

"Your girl. What's her name?"

"Dorothy," Beatrice whispered.

Josie nodded. She briefly looked relieved.

"She sounds pretty."

"Yeah. She is."

"Bet you miss her."

Beatrice nodded.

They were quiet for a moment. Beatrice closed her eyes again, and allowed herself to relax.

"Sit up. I'll wash your hair," Josie finally said.

Beatrice pulled herself up, resting her arms against the lip of the tub.

She felt Josie tug the remaining covering off her hair bun, felt both frazzled buns loosened, and felt Josie's fingers untangling and smoothing out her hair.

"Hold your breath and close your eyes."

Beatrice did so, and felt hot water pour down over her. Then felt Josie's gentle, tender hands rub floral-scented shampoo into her hair. She sighed.

"Enjoying this?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Josie smiled.

"Rinsing."

Beatrice again held her breath, once more shivering as she felt the warm water poured over her head.

After taking a few deep breaths, Beatrice opened her eyes. She saw Josie standing by the tub, looking down at her. Smiling. Fondly? Sadly? Beatrice couldn't read the emotion.

"Thank you," Beatrice sighed.

"Of course. Relax for a bit."

Beatrice nodded, and settled back into the hot water.

She closed her eyes, and the heat and comfort and sense of safety lulled her to sleep.

...

A hand touched her shoulder. Beatrice mumbled. Her eyes opened slowly.

"Good morning."

Beatrice blinked.

"Hwahh? I ... I didn't sleep in here all night?"

The bath water was tepid, at best. She might have. She glanced up, to see Josie grinning.

"No, of course not. But you do look a lot better."

Beatrice yawned, and sat up. She frowned, glancing at her hands.

"Except for my fingers and toes."

"Well. That is true. Need help?"

Beatrice shook her head, and pushed herself out of the tub. Josie held a large, white towel.

"Come on. I'll help you dry off.’’

Beatrice nodded, and stepped out, into Josie’s arms. The girl wrapped the towel around her body. The towel was soft and warm. Josie held her like that for a moment.

“Josie, you're going to spoil me," Beatrice sighed wistfully.

The girl nodded once.

"You need a little spoiling, Becky,” Josie whispered.

After a good five minutes of gentle drying at Josie's hands, she led Beatrice back into the main room. She saw through the open curtains that the sun was already beginning to set.

"Sit," Josie commanded.

Beatrice did so, without complaint or comment. The girl examined the cut on her cheek. It no longer bled, but she applied a bandage to it to be safe.

Then, with a grimace, she glanced at the wound on Beatrice's torso.

"God," she whispered.

Beatrice shrugged.

"Already had that," she said with a dark chuckle.

Josie shook her head. Gently, she ran her fingers across the wound. A stitch had come loose, but there was no blood.

"I'll cover that too."

Beatrice nodded, weakly. Josie continued to be gentle, as she lightly wrapped bandages around her, but an itchy discomfort made her shift and groan softly.

“I have supper ready for us," Josie said. Beatrice nodded. She saw some clothes laid out on the bed beside her: a pair of bloomers and a knee-length white night-shirt. She pulled them on. Carefully. Resisting the urge to scratch at her torso, or her cheek, or her throat.

"You'll stay here tonight. And as long as you need."

Beatrice shook her head.

"I can't ask that of you. I have a friend I need to find anyway."

"You _need_ a good night's rest. You will have that rest here. Besides, I will not let you leave."

Beatrice blinked.

"Oh. Um. Okay."

Josie nodded, and walked over to the kitchen area. Beatrice sighed, and glanced at the little table beside the bed. The gun and flask still sat there.

"Not really luxurious. The bread's from a cheap bakery. But the soup is fresh."

She set a bowl in front of Beatrice, then a glass of water, and then a plate filled with a hard-crust bread that had been sliced into chunks. Beatrice took one and munched it, as Josie got a bowl for herself.

They ate in silence. Beatrice started to feel alive again.

Once the soup and bread was gone, Josie took the dirty dishes to the kitchen counter-top. Then she sat down on the bed beside Beatrice.

"Josie. I don't really quite know how to thank you."

"Don't try. Not right now."

Beatrice tilted her head.

"What do you mean?"

Josie closed her eyes, and sighed.

"Just ... I mean. This is all kind of my fault."

"What? I don't see ...."

"I work for Frankie."

Beatrice's stomach flopped. Her heart stopped beating.

Her voice became very thin and quiet: "What?"

"I ... I was watching the laundry mill for him."

"Why?"

"My parents died in the revolution. I basically grew up in an orphanage. When I was .. eight, Frankie found me. He thought I was perfect. He basically bought me. Trained me to pick pockets, break into homes through windows, little things like that. Late last year he gave me the option to spy on the laundry mill. Bruce, he thought it was a good idea. I mean, I never thought it would lead to ... I mean ...."

Beatrice closed her eyes.

"Josie ...."

"But Frankie does not know where you are. This flat ... Bruce found it for me, and is helping me with the rent. He's trying to get me out of Frankie's clutches. Just can't do it all at once."

"Bruce is ... what to you?"

"I met him about a year ago. Actually ... he caught me stealing from him. I told him my story, and he ... well, he let me have the money. So I wouldn't get in trouble with Frankie. And ... well, he said I could come back, and he kept giving me money."

She blushed and looked down at her feet.

"I ... fell in love with him. He's helped me out, so I think he loves me too."

"This is ... hard to accept."

Josie nodded.

They were quiet for a long moment.

"I ... I still need to thank you, Josie. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped me."

Josie nodded again.

"Just ... no offense, but I wish I'd never met you."

Beatrice shrugged.

"Rather, met under better circumstances?"

"Yeah. That."

Silence fell again.

"Becky?"

"Hmm?"

Josie's hand rested on her shoulder.

"I am sorry."

Beatrice nodded.

"I accept that."

Josie moved closer, placing her arm over Beatrice's shoulder. She shifted positions, and pulled Beatrice to her. Beatrice wrapped her arms around Josie's abdomen. Josie squeezed. Beatrice sighed very softly, and closed her eyes.

"Josie?"

"Becky?"

"Thank you. I really do mean it."

Josie pulled back. Beatrice dropped her arms, believing the embrace to be over.

Instead, Josie leaned in again. Leaned in close to her face. Pressing her lips to Beatrice's.

Josie's lips were rougher than Dorothy's. In both senses. The kiss from Josie was firm. Aggressive. And she tried to immediately make it deep.

Beatrice, shocked, pushed at Josie's shoulders, and pulled away.

"Wha ... wha ... what?" she spluttered.

Josie's face became bright red. She swallowed, and looked down at her feet.

"I just thought ... that maybe you might feel ...."

"I ... I am in love with someone. You are too!"

Josie laughed, a bitter sound.

"I guess ... I can't blame you if you want to leave."

Beatrice closed her eyes.

"It's ... I guess it's okay. You ... I mean, you ... have helped. And ...."

Josie stood up abruptly. Beatrice heard a sob. In a flash, she was on her feet, her arms around Josie's mid-section.

"It's okay."

Beatrice felt light-headed. From standing up too fast of course, but mostly from the situation. She didn't know what to do, but ... it was already dark. Where would she even go? There weren't any real options.

"Okay?"

Josie nodded once. She turned around in Beatrice's arms, and draped her own around Beatrice's shoulders. She looked into Beatrice's eyes.

Beatrice shivered. Josie's eyes were very pretty. Light blue. Clear. Focused. If she weren't careful ....

"Lie down. Relax a little, okay? I'll be okay, as long as you will be."

Beatrice nodded, and released Josie. She sat back down on the bed, and settled down under the covers. She watched as Josie walked into the washroom. After a moment, she came back out wearing bloomers and a camisole.

She watched Josie closely. She realized that the girl was beautiful. Her skin was pale, and soft. It looked soft. No, she knew it _was_ soft. Her touch was tender. Her eyes ... she felt that she could lose herself in them.

Josie's bloomers hugged her hips. The camisole was just short enough that as she moved, it lifted to give Beatrice a quick, enticing glance of Josie's slender abdomen, and the hint of the swelling of ... _God in Heaven help me, what am I thinking?!_

Beatrice closed her eyes, and tried not to think about where she was. Dorothy. Focus on Dorothy.

She felt Josie sit on the edge of the mattress. Beatrice opened her eyes. The room was dark. The light had been extinguished.

"Becky?"

"What?"

Beatrice felt Josie's hand. Her very soft, warm hand. She touched Beatrice's uninjured cheek. Tenderly. And caressed there with her fingertips. Beatrice could not help but shiver at the sensation.

"You really are very pretty."

"Josie," Beatrice sighed.

"You are."

"Please don't."

"Okay."

Josie stood up, and Beatrice closed her eyes again.


	14. Eye of the Storm

Chise turned back to her. She sheathed her sword, and pulled the mask down from her face. She was smiling. It was a weary expression, but genuine. And every fear, every doubt, every question and uncertainty that Marilla had felt over the last year melted away into nothingness.

Chise reached her hand down. Marilla grasped it in both of hers, and let herself be pulled up to her feet. She looked down into Chise's eyes.

The Japanese girl, looking up at her, felt heat rise to her face. Her cheeks turned red.

Marilla laughed. And Chise's smile widened.

...

The fog embraced Chise and Marilla. Shielded them. Quietly, invisibly, they walked through streets and alleys. Hand in hand. Marilla felt the warmth of Chise's hand, of her skin, spreading from their contact through every inch of her being. The wind was cold, but she didn't feel it. The fog was chilly. It didn't touch her.

"Here," Chise said quietly. She led them down a quiet, dark alley between the street they had been in, and a neighboring residential street. She glanced out. The street was more or less empty. One car parked in front of a townhouse. She watched it for a moment. When there was no movement, she stepped out. Chise no longer was dragging her, forcing her to follow. Marilla followed dutifully even so. She would not have resisted in any case.

Two doors down from the alleyway, and Chise once more glanced up and down the street. Two stairs led up to the white painted wood door.

Chise pressed her hand against a seemingly random brick. Marilla watched in surprise as the brick slid back and to one side, revealing a cavity. A key sat within.

Chise took the key, then moved the fake brick back into position. Then glancing around once more, she unlocked the door, grasped Marilla's hand again, and led her within.

"We're safe?"

Chise closed and locked the door, then again led Marilla by the hand into the dining room.

"There is one more precaution to take. I did not spot any one on the road, but a stealthy observer can elude detection."

Chise strode up to the table, and reached her free hand for a candlestick. She twisted it counter-clockwise, and a panel in the floor popped up with a click.

Chise gave Marilla a quick smile, and the older girl squeezed Chise's hand, before releasing it.

The panel was hinged, opening like a trap-door. A stairway led down into a darkened space. Chise moved down the stairs with quick familiarity. Marilla followed a step behind. Cautious. Unable to see except for Chise's back, and unfamiliar with the layout.

Chise lit a match, and used it to light an oil lamp that sat on a small table beside a cot.

"Not much bigger than my cell," Marilla observed.

Chise pulled the trap door closed above them.

"It is only temporary. Until I feel that we have escaped."

Marilla nodded, and sat down on the bed.

"Cheiko?"

Chise took her jingasa off her head, and set it on the table.

"We have many things to discuss I feel."

Marilla nodded, and glanced up at the ceiling.

"Do not worry. We will hear anyone enter before they could have a chance to hear us talk."

Marilla nodded again, and turned her gaze back to Chise.

"I ... my name is Chise Todo. I am samurai. I came to your country in pursuit of a very dangerous rebel and assassin. Jubei Todo. My father."

"Your ... father?"

Chise nodded.

"He betrayed the Emperor, and warred against the nation. When the other rebel samurai had all been captured, killed, or surrendered, my father continued his war from the shadows. He came here to kill the ambassador between our nations."

"What happened, Cheiko? Or ... should I call you ...."

"Chise. I will answer you either way. I and my friends, whom you have met at the mill, confronted my father. I fought him. I killed him, with my own hands."

Marilla blinked in surprise.

"Cheiko. I ... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Chise nodded, once.

"Of course."

"Is ... is that why you left the laundry mill?"

Chise sat on the edge of the bed. Marilla inched closer to her, to Chise's surprise ... but she didn't comment or pull away.

"We were there in pursuit of Poison Gas Jack."

"I know. I guessed, at least. That's who you fought with the irons? Actually that was the last time I saw you. _Chise_. Why were you ... you looked ashamed."

She shrugged, and looked at the oil lamp.

"Perhaps I was. It is shameful to lie, even in such a situation."

"If ... if you're apologizing ...."

"I am."

"Then I accept."

There was silence. Chise turned back to Marilla. Their eyes met. Marilla's cheeks turned pink, and she smiled.

"When I saw you there," Chise whispered, "for one brief moment, I was afraid that you would die. It was a feeling that I did not enjoy."

"Chise ...."

"Besides, I knew that you were strong enough to run the laundry mill. You did not need my help."

Marilla's smile melted.

"You're wrong."

Chise blinked in surprise.

"I don't ...."

Marilla closed her eyes, and lowered her face.

"I can run the mill. If anything, I've managed better than Priscilla. We've had record profits, and no serious injuries."

"Then ... what could you possibly require my help for?"

Marilla opened her eyes. She stared at her feet for a moment.

"Marilla?"

"Do you consider me a friend?"

"Of course. It is why I gifted you a photograph and a blessing."

Marilla smiled, and looked up, into Chise's eyes.

"I doubted your friendship. At first, at least. You never said goodbye. I never saw you again. Chise, I ... I miss you."

Chise swallowed. Her heart skipped a beat.

"And I you."

"Why didn't you ever come back? To visit me?"

"Marilla. It is something that I wished, many times. I believed it would serve no good at all to see you briefly, and then leave again."

"Again, you are wrong. It would have meant the world to me."

"Marilla ...."

The older girl leaned in, placing a hand on Chise's cheek. Her hand was not especially soft. Hers was a worker's hand, rough and calloused. Even with that, her touch was tender. Gentle. And Chise felt a shiver run through her body.

"Chise. I don't know how to express how much I care for you."

Chise placed her hand against Marilla's. Their gazes were locked together.

"Marilla. I ... I do not really understand what I am feeling."

Marilla laughed softly.

"I don't either. Not really. What makes your heart flutter? Makes you want to gaze into someone's eyes for eternity? Makes your fingers itch to feel their skin?"

Chise's cheeks and the tips of her ears turned red. Tentatively, she slid a hand onto Marilla's back. Marilla closed the gap between them, her hand leaving Chise's cheek as her arms wrapped around Chise's body.

"Chise," Marilla whispered into her ear. The Japanese girl shivered.

"Chise, don't leave me again. Please?"

Chise wrapped her arms around Marilla.

"I cannot make such a promise."

"Please? I don't literally mean stay at my side. I mean ... wherever you are in the world, I want to be there with you. In spirit at least."

"Marilla."

"Chise, I am offering you my heart."

Chise pulled back from the embrace. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

Marilla's eyes glimmered in the dim light. They were filled with hope, but uncertainty. She looked fragile. And yet, somehow ...

"Beautiful," Chise whispered.

Marilla's blush deepened.

"Chise?"

"I do not know what to say, Marilla. I ... I want to accept, but I do not know what I can do. I do not feel ... worthy of your affection."

Marilla closed the distance between them. The tips of their noses touched.

"I love you," Marilla whispered.

Chise's face glowed bright red. She swallowed.

"Marilla. I feel the greatest possible affection and admiration for you. I can not say more until I feel that I have earned the right to ...."

Marilla's lips pressed to Chise's. It was a quick kiss, one that surprised her. She didn't really return the kiss, though she didn't flinch away. When it broke, she gawked at Marilla. Her stomach was in knots, and her entire body tingled.

Marilla closed her eyes.

"I ... I'm sorry. You didn't ...."

Chise raised her hand, gingerly touching her lips with her fingertips.

"Marilla. That ... that was my first kiss."

Marilla opened her eyes.

"Oh. I should have ... should I have said something?"

Chise blinked. She stared back into Marilla's eyes. And a big, silly grin slowly broke across her face.

Marilla laughed softly.

"I love you, Chise."

Chise giggled, and shivered.

"I ... think that ... maybe ... I. love you. Marilla."

Chise's face was bright red, and she found it hard to keep eye contact. Her grin hadn't vanished.

Marilla softly placed her hands on Chise's cheeks, and the Japanese girl managed to look up, into her eyes.

Marilla had to giggle again softly.

"You are so cute," she whispered.

"I ... That is ...."

Marilla smiled, and leaned back in. Chise eagerly met her half way. Their lips met. The kiss wasn't much longer than the other, but it was mutual. Shared. Sending a little shivery thrill through both girls.

The kiss broke.

"Well. Um. I guess we ...." Marilla began, awkwardly.

Chise nodded, prompting another soft laugh from Marilla.

They embraced again, tightly, pulling one another close before allowing their lips to meet once more. The kiss lingered, before Chise somewhat abruptly broke it.

"I ... I do not believe that we should continue."

Marilla shifted her weight, awkwardly. The look in her eyes melted from joy to sadness.

"Right now, things are ...."

Chise frowned, searching for the right word.

"Chaotic," Marilla suggested.

Chise nodded.

"Then ... while we have a moment of peace ...." Marilla started.

Chise shook her head.

"I apologize. I cannot. Not right now."

Marilla sighed.

"But you do ... I mean, you feel it, yes?"

Chise nodded.

"Of course. It is an unfamiliar feeling. Unexpected, though not unwelcome."

Marilla smiled, though the expression never quite reached her eyes.

"And you don't know quite what to do from here?"

Chise shook her head slowly.

"We will explore it. Together."

"Yes. When the chaos has calmed."

Marilla sighed once more. Chise leaned in to kiss her. Marilla placed her hand on the back of her head. Holding Chise to the kiss. It lingered. Started to deepen. And as before, Chise pulled back.

"Sleep now," she said, abruptly standing.

"But ...."

"No. You need to rest."

"Will ... will you be here when I wake up?"

Chise glanced down at the floor.

"I will try to be. However, I have two obligations that I must meet."

"Rescue your friend?"

She nodded.

"Also, I must meet with Lord Horikawa."

Chise stood there a moment. Then she leaned in, cupping her hands over Marilla's cheeks. Pressing her lips to Marilla's to steal one last kiss.

Marilla smiled, then lay back on the bed, closing her eyes.

And Chise, quietly, knelt down beside the bed, watching over her, as Marilla's breathing slowed, and became regular.

Chise waited for a few minutes, watching Marilla. Taking in the sight of the young woman sleeping. Safe, and at peace. She sighed, and stood.

She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Marilla's cheek. Her eyelids fluttered open. Chise blushed.

"Hmmm... you back or ...."

"Apologies. I had not intended to wake you. I must leave."

Marilla nodded softly.

"Come back soon," she muttered.

"Of course."

She waited for another moment, until Marilla's eyes had closed once more. Until her breathing resumed its even rhythm.

She adjusted the oil lamp, dimming the light. Then she pushed up on the trap-door. Wincing as it opened with a louder creak than she had expected. She saw Marilla roll onto her back, but remain asleep.

Then Chise left the safety of the cellar, closed it securely, and exited the safehouse. Back out into the cold, foggy night. She had business to attend to.


	15. Unreal City

Whitechapel.

A hateful name in Chise's mind. From her rooftop vantage-point, the cursed district spread out under her like a cancerous growth.

She gripped the hilt of her katana. Marilla was safe, yes. She was sleeping peacefully. But Beatrice? It gnawed at Chise's gut.

The girl had been shot. She had been abducted out from under her very nose. Chise had failed. She had failed to protect her. She had failed to rescue her. She had to focus right now, but that thought, that failure, it kept coming back to her.

Beatrice should by all rights be dead. And that death would lay at Chise's feet.

No. No regrets. Set it aside. The girl lived. She knew she lived. She could feel her, somewhere out there. Out there in the city that stretched out below her.

Her thoughts were betraying her. There was no time for them. She pushed them aside, and leapt down from the rooftop to the street below. Down to one knee. She sprang forward. Running toward the warehouse.

The door was still broken. She pushed it open effortlessly. The space beyond was dark. Empty. Quiet. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. Likely too late. Still, she was here. There could be information. An indication where they could have gone.

She pushed at the door leading to the jail area. It swung open.

Empty cells. The tray of food and water hadn't been cleaned from the floor. Chise frowned, and pushed her way past.

The wooden door on the far side of the corridor was ajar. Carefully, katana at the ready in her left hand, she pushed it open.

It was a small room, with a table and a chair. There were two doors. One was ajar. She peeked through it, to see a larger open space. A wooden partition had been set up, to create an office space. A desk sat there, and Chise saw papers scattered around this space.

She frowned, and turned to the other door.

It was unlocked. She pushed it open.

There was a chair in here, underneath a dark electric light bulb. A table held tools, and devices that made Chise's skin crawl. A pool of dried blood was in the middle of the floor. Shredded clothing, which Chise instantly recognized, lay in piles around the chair along with bloodied, discarded bandages. A vaguely familiar fountain pen lay on the floor beside the table. Chise snatched this up, placing it in a hip pouch.

Chise's eyes smoldered with rage. She looked at the chair. Could not help but imagine Beatrice, helpless within it. She allowed herself to fill with cold, unalloyed hatred.

"Beato," she whispered, "I swear to you, I will make whomever did this to you pay."

...

When Beatrice's eyes opened again, early morning sunlight was filtering in through the curtains, which had been pulled shut. Beatrice yawned, and sat up slowly in bed.

"Josie?"

There was no answer. The flat was dark except for the sunlight.

She pulled the covers back, and dangled her legs over the edge of the bed.

After another moment, she heard the lock being turned, and the door opened. Beatrice started to reach for the gun on the table, on instinct.

Josie entered, holding a paper bag.

"Morning. Got us breakfast."

Beatrice's cheeks turned red, and she nodded. Sheepishly, she dropped her hand to her lap.

Josie closed and locked the door, then set the bag down on the table. The scent of fresh-baked pastry and cinnamon and sugar filled the room.

"Tea?"

Beatrice nodded. Josie put a kettle on the stove-top.

She then walked over to Beatrice, and sat down beside her on the bed.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

Beatrice regarded her, uncertainly.

"I shouldn't have kissed you. Or tried to make you do things you'd regret."

Beatrice sighed.

"I ... I forgive you."

Josie smiled, though the expression looked sad.

The kettle whistled, and she stood.

"If it means anything, I really did just want to make you feel good."

She poured two cups of tea. Beatrice didn't say anything.

Josie glanced back at her.

"Sugar?"

Beatrice nodded. Josie brought the teacups, and a bowl of sugar to the table.

"I haven't any cream or milk."

"That's alright,"

Josie reached into the bag, and pulled out a cinnamon roll, drizzled in white icing. Beatrice's mouth began to water. Josie laughed softly, and handed the pastry to her.

_"Bon appetit."_

Beatrice took a bite, and couldn't suppress a sigh of contentment.

"You sound happy."

Beatrice nodded.

"I'm glad. I am glad you didn't leave."

"No where to go really."

They sat quietly, eating their pastries and drinking tea.

When they finished, Josie sighed.

"What is Dorothy like? She must be ... amazing."

Beatrice nodded softly.

"She is. We've worked together for ... well, for a while. Beautiful, like I told you before. She's kind and tender. Fiercely loyal. Very protective and loving. Good with cars and not bad with machines generally."

Beatrice blushed lightly: "She has a bit of a wild side, sometimes," she added.

Josie frowned, and tilted her head.

"That sounds kinda like Dorothea."

"Oh, right. She did go by Dorothea when she was at the mill," Beatrice said, fidgeting.

Josie shrugged.

"I heard about her too. She's the one that made Rita and some of the others pretty. Drove the lorry around sometimes. Actually, didn't she use the girls to get some contracts from a mining company?"

" _Use_ ," Beatrice frowned.

Josie shrugged.

"Kinda sounds like it to me. Pretty them up, parade them in front of the men of the mine .…"

  
Beatrice huffed, and crossed her arms.

"She did not 'parade' them in front of anyone!"

Josie laughed softly.

"Right, right.'Sales techniques' she called it, right?"

Beatrice blushed.

"I can understand that. It's smart to use a pretty face to drive sales." Josie batted her eyelashes, leaning in close to Beatrice and pouting cutely.

"Stop that," Beatrice grumbled, scooting a little further away from her.

Josie laughed.

"Admit it. If you were single .…"

"Josie, I am not having this conversation with you!"

Josie shook her head, and stood up to place the dirty teacups by the sink.

"Well. I do have to head out. Frankie still wants me to watch the laundry mill. He's ordered me to tell him the minute I see you, or Daisy." She glanced back at Beatrice with a wide grin.

"I don't think I'm inclined to do that any more though."

Beatrice watched her for a moment, as she rinsed out the teacups.

"Thank you."

Josie shrugged.

"I don't want you to hate me more than you already do."

"Josie, I don't hate you. I just ... I love Dorothy."

"I know. So, I can't betray you or Daisy to Frankie."

She stopped for a moment.

"You know ... I don't think Frankie knows about Dorothy. He never mentions her. Only you and Daisy, and sometimes he mentions Alice and Priscilla. I really don't know what he's thinking though. He's just so ... filled with rage about Daisy. Wait ... Daisy has long brown hair too. Is she ... no. No, it's nothing."

Beatrice shifted awkwardly, not committing to anything.

...

Josie had laid out an outfit for Beatrice before leaving.

"I won't blame you if you leave," she had said. "I hope you'll stay here though. I don't think you're really strong enough to be out there in London on your own. Not yet."

The dress was simple. It was faded blue, knee-length, with puffy shoulders and long sleeves. It reminded her of her favorite dress she always used to wear in the cooler months. This dress was made of cotton, and had clearly seen better days. Still, it covered her from throat to wrists to knees. With a pair of sturdy wool stockings she was covered except for her face and hands. It made Beatrice feel safe again. In control. She no longer felt on display.

As the day wore on, with nothing to do, and little to keep her mind occupied, Beatrice felt increasingly sore: Her side ached, her legs were stiff, her eye throbbed, her cheek itched, her head pounded. To say nothing of the doubts that swirled around in her brain. Should she have done anything differently? _could_ she have?

With a sigh, she opened the flask of gin, and again saying a quick apology to Dorothy, placed it against her lips and tipped it back. Sighing as the burning fluid coursed into her. Easing her discomfort, just enough that she felt that she could remain sane. She took one more quick swig of the liquid fire, before closing the flask.

As day darkened to evening, Josie returned. As she had in the morning, she carried a paper bag.

"Brought us supper," Josie said simply.

Beatrice nodded. As before, Josie made tea, and sat down on the bed, beside Beatrice. The brunette's mouth began to water even before she saw the food: the sharp, savory smells of gravy and roasted vegetables were enough.

"Hope meat pies are okay."

Beatrice nodded eagerly. Josie chuckled.

"Good. I got us several. I know you didn't have lunch, and I am sorry about that."

"It's fine. Leaves more room for the pies!"

Josie smiled, and set two out in front of Beatrice, two more for herself.

"Becky?" Josie asked, as they started eating.

"Hmm?"

"I spoke to Frankie just a little bit ago."

Beatrice's eyes widened in panic, and she dropped her fork.

"Oh, don't worry. I didn't tell him you were here. I did get him to talk a little more freely though."

Beatrice sighed in relief, and took a sip of tea.

"Frankie plans to leave for Paris."

"Paris? Why?"

"I don't know all the details, but apparently Frankie is after Daisy, and he wants to capture you again. His partner is after ... well, I don't know if I believe my own ears. I guess Priscilla and Alice are a lot more than they seemed to be. "

Beatrice shrugged, still not committing.

"I guess Paris is supposed to be some kind of big trap. If you're up for it, we can go back to the warehouse."

Beatrice looked confused at this.

"Why?"

"Frankie kept information there. I think he left some of it behind. He did panic just a little after what happened."

Beatrice smiled, thinly.

"Also," Josie continued, "your friend Cheiko may try to go back there. I ... wouldn't mind meeting her. I mean, with you making sure she doesn't run me through!"

Beatrice shook her head.

"She won't. Not if I'm there."

...

Beatrice shivered. A chilly wind blew, but that wasn't the main reason. She was returning to a place she didn't really want to go, a place her mind had difficulty leaving behind.

The streets were dimly lit. Wet from drizzle. The tram had been empty. Whitechapel High Street was populated with the dregs of the morally jaundiced middle-class. It made Beatrice's mood gradually shift from nervous uncertainty to indignant grumpiness.

"You sure you're okay Becky?"

Beatrice nodded, and took a deep breath.

"Yeah. I don't want to do this, but ...."

"I understand."

The ominous side street was empty. Dark. There was no lorry. No thugs. The heavy double doors stood open, the chain lying abandoned on the pavement. The window, Beatrice noticed with some amusement, was still shattered.

Despite this, Beatrice pulled the heavy revolver from her jacket pocket. She stole a quick gaze at Josie.

"Ready?"

Josie nodded.

"If things go wrong, run," Beatrice said quietly.

"No, I'll help however I can."

Beatrice sighed, but didn't say anything else.

The warehouse interior was dark. Eerily quiet. Empty. The door to the brick jail area was ajar.

Beatrice shivered.

"Desk," Beatrice whispered. Josie nodded. Beatrice found herself glancing back at the door though. Keeping her gun aimed at it.

The desk drawers were all open. Paperwork was strewn around the office space haphazardly. Some near the window was soaked with the cold drizzle.

Unwilling to release the gun, she gathered up what papers she could with her free hand. Josie likewise gathered up from the floor everything not obviously ruined.

"What are we looking for," Josie whispered.

Beatrice shrugged.

"Anything. Anything that might tell us what Frankie's doing."

She nodded.

Beatrice's eyes snapped up to the door. Her eyes went wide. It was slowly opening. "Down," she hissed, and the two ducked behind the desk.

She peeked up over the desk. A figure slowly entered. In the scant light, she could see the figure's outline. A distinct conical hat, baggy pants, and a subtly curved sword grasped in one hand.

Beatrice stood up.

"Chise!"

Josie stood up as well, giving Beatrice a curious look.

"Beato?"

The Japanese girl moved over to the desk, briskly. Sheathing her sword. She pulled the mask down revealing a look of surprise, and concern.

"You ... have been hurt."

"I'm alright though."

Chise nodded,

"It is good to see you. And ... Josie? Why are you here?"

"She ... she is helping me, Chise."

Josie glanced between the two.

"I suppose I can't be surprised. Beato?"

"Ahh. Well .…"

"Now is perhaps not the time," Chise said somewhat sharply.

Josie nodded.

"Right. I'm helping because ... well, I was working for Frankie."

"What?!" Chise's eyes narrowed. Josie's face turned bright red, and she hastily looked down at the desk.

"I ... I couldn't say no. It's a long story, and I am deeply sorry for what happened."

Chise's expression remained dark.

"You had a hand in Marilla's abduction."

"Not directly. I ... I was just watching the laundry mill."

"Now," Beatrice said in an exasperated tone, "is _perhaps_ not the time."

Chise shot her a reproachful look ... which rapidly softened.

"You are correct. What have you found?"

"Nothing, yet. There's a lot of paperwork here though. There might be something."

Chise glanced at it, then glared at Josie.

"What more do you know?" she asked sharply.

Josie flinched, and looked down at the papers stacked in front of her.

"I ... know that Frankie is almost certainly in Paris by now. I know he has an associate, and that together they intend to capture all of you. Well ...."

She glanced up at Chise, shifting uncertainly.

"What?"

"I ... I think that they intend to kill you. The woman says you are too dangerous to let live."

Chise frowned.

"A correct assertion. I suspect this woman is someone we have met before, Beato."

"Wait .. you don't mean ...?"

Chise nodded once.

"Our ... side is compromised as well. I will not say more for the moment," Chise gave Josie an accusatory glance, "but Lord Horikawa offers you safety, Beato. To Marilla as well."

Beatrice nodded.

"I don't really understand, but I appreciate that. Now ... can we leave?"

Chise's expression softened.

"I saw the room, Beato."

Beatrice shuddered, and Josie placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"You should. Perhaps not now, but it is not good to let such a thing eat at you. It can lead to the death of your soul."

...

They stood in front of Josie's boarding-house. Chise had her arms crossed, and wore a dark expression.

Josie shifted uncomfortably.

"I ... I really would like to come ...."

"No. I refuse. I do not trust you. I do not believe that you have our best interests at heart."

Beatrice remained quiet, despite Josie giving her a look.

Chise glanced between the two. Her expression darkened.

"And no matter what you might think you mean to Beato, I will not change my mind."

Beatrice nodded.

"It ... it is for the best."

Josie sighed, but nodded.

"I just ... when this is all over, look me up Beatrice. Please."

"We'll see," she said quietly.

Josie looked at her for one more moment, then with a shrug she turned and walked into her boarding house.

Chise glanced at Beatrice with the hint of disapproval, then turned and began to move.

"We will go to a safehouse location. I will say no more."

Beatrice nodded.

"She did help me though."

Chise said nothing.

...

Marilla's eyes were open. She stared up at the low ceiling. She didn't really see it. She couldn't see anything but the image of Chise. With a mask over her face. A sword in her hand. Couldn't get out of her mind the feeling of the touch of her fingers. Strong and firm, soft and tender.

She sat up.

The girl had sat there. On the bed beside her. Her lips tingled at the memory. The memory of her kiss. The faintly salty taste. The little thrill of electricity that shivered down her spine. Her body tingled again just thinking about it. Had it been what she expected?

Marilla closed her eyes.

She folded her hands together.

She couldn't stop thinking about the way her face looked. When it turned red. When she grinned. When her lips grazed her skin.

Skin. She shivered. Her shoulders. Her arms. Chise was a vision of beauty. A strong and fierce beauty.

When Marilla had been very young, she had been awakened one night by a thunderstorm. She had opened the window in her room, and stared out at it. At the lightning. The dark, swirling clouds. Her eyes had been wide, fear and awe mingled together as she watched it. A force of nature.

It is how she saw Chise.

Marilla was afraid of her. She had watched her defeat men twice her size, more than twice, effortlessly. She had watched her deflect bullets with a sword. She had watched her use that sword on other men. They hadn't been killed, as she had used the flat of the blade. But if she had not ... a shudder ran through Marilla's body. She could imagine the spray of crimson. Imagine Chise's eyes turn cold at the sight.

And yet she loved Chise. That love remained, regardless of the fear. No matter what she thought. No matter what she imagined. She wasn't entirely sure it was a healthy thing, but it was inescapable.

She heard a creaking sound above her head. Her eyes opened, and she glanced around uncertainly. She swallowed, and held her breath for a moment. Chise had told her she would be safe here. She clung to that assertion. Chise would not lie to her.

No.

That was untrue. She _had_ lied to her, hadn't she? But she wouldn't lie about something like that. Not now, that they had each other's hearts.

The trap-door clicked open. Marilla took a deep breath. That had to mean ....

"Marilla?"

"Chise!"

Marilla rose, and moved over to the stairs. She saw Chise coming down, and right behind her Beatrice.

"Ahhh. Ummm. Hello, Miss Marilla."

"Becky? I ... oh sweet Christ, what happened to you?!"

Beatrice shifted awkwardly, as Marilla stepped up, reaching out to her and resting her hands on her cheeks. The older girl's eyes were wide with concern.

"I ... ahhh ... Frankie. He was ... well...." Beatrice shrugged, face bright red. She was not quite able to go into details.

"I am sorry," Marilla whispered.

"Don't be," Beatrice responded,

Marilla smiled, sadly, and nodded. She released Beatrice's cheeks, and turned to Chise.

"I apologize for forcing you to remain in such conditions," the Japanese girl said.

Marilla stepped over to her, wrapping her arms around Chise.

"No, it's alright. I trust you. I know you're doing this to keep me safe."

"Yes."

"So, are we safe now?"

"As safe as we can be," Chise responded.

Marilla nodded, and with some reluctance released Chise. She turned back to Beatrice.

"Becky? Is that your name?"

"Ahh. Well, no. My name is Beatrice."

Marilla nodded, smiling.

"Then it is nice to meet you, Beatrice," she said, embracing the younger girl in turn.

"Friends call me Beato," she replied, returning the hug with a smile.

"We should leave. As much as it is a risk, I believe it would be good to return to the laundry mill."

Marilla nodded.

"Yes, please. I want them to know that I'm safe, if nothing else."

...

The sun was just beginning to rise. Down by the river, men, women, girls, and boys that had been up for hours passed by on their way to and fro. Busy. They paid the three young women no mind. The laborers had somewhere to be. The petty criminals avoided them. There was a certain quality in the gaze of the youngest of the three that suggested she was in no mood to simply let things pass. A small boy wearing a pork-pie hat and threadbare coat, catching a glimpse of her expression, turned tail and ran for no reason anyone could readily name.

As they approached the laundry mill, they could hear the rumble of the steam engine. They saw the heavy cloud of smoke billow from its chimney. Heard the belts and drives hum. Heard singing.

The lorry idled in front of the mill. A young woman passed a full, heavy bag down from the bed to a young girl, who staggered under the burden, into the mill. A young, stout girl sat beside the working woman, chewing on a hunk of bread.

She happened to glance up, and see them as they approached.

"Marilla!"

The bread, forgotten, fell to the floor of the lorry.

The woman standing in the back of the lorry stood.

"Cheiko! Becky!"

A cluster of girls peeked out through the open double doors.

"Cheiko did it!"

More girls and young women began to spill out.

"Marilla, you're safe!"

The stout girl gasped in surprise, her eyes wide.

"Dear God Becky ... are you okay?"

Young twins approached her, holding hands.

"Did you get hurt saving Marilla?"

Josie hesitantly glanced out through the double doors. She briefly made eye contact with Beatrice, before ducking back into the mill.

Rita sensed that she was losing control.

"Umm .. okay girls, morning break!"

She knew she had no chance to force anyone to work. It might be difficult getting anyone to work at all that day. Still, she trotted out along with the rest. Her eyes were wide. Filled with tears. And she wore a huge grin.

"Rita!" Marilla smiled happily, and the younger girl tossed concern aside. Leaping forward, wrapping her arms around Marilla, and very nearly bringing both of them to the ground.

Other girls shouted out, and in an instant they had surrounded Marilla and Rita. Clinging. Laughing. Crying. Singing.

Beatrice glanced at Chise with a grin. Which flattened out when she saw the troubled expression on Chise's face.

"It's okay," she told Chise. "We did it."

"Indeed. But we must still make them pay for this."

"Okay," Marilla managed to say between the giggles and cheers of the girls. "Okay. Hey! Let me breathe!"

The crowd pulled back from Marilla, who gasped, shaking her head. But her face was lit with the widest, brightest smile any of them had ever seen on her face. Except for Chise.

After a few more moments, Rita herded the girls back to work, and Marilla led Chise, Beatrice, and Rita to her office.

"It's so nice to be back," Marilla sighed.

"It's wonderful to see you back!" Rita's expression changed, and she shuffled her feet. "I ... was afraid I'd never see you again."

Marilla sat down at her desk. She looked at all the ledger books. And the paperwork. She frowned, and glanced at Rita, who shrugged.

"I haven't felt much like keeping up with that."

Marilla shook her head.

"The mill does not run itself, Rita."

The younger girl nodded, and pulled up a chair, to sit beside Marilla.

"Well .. you are back now though."

Chise frowned.

"I must meet with Lord Horikawa. He requests you two join me as well," Chise said.

Beatrice and Marilla shared a look.

Chise frowned.

"He offers you both safety. Until we are certain of our next move, it is our best option."

Rita glanced uncertainly between them.

"Have there been any problems here, Rita?"

"Well ... no. Not really. Even if you say it ... the mill really does kinda run itself."

Marilla sighed, but a grin crossed her face.

"Then I have to ask you to watch the mill, for just a little longer."

Rita nodded, reluctantly, She was hardly going to refuse.

...

From the mill, the three took a steam-powered bus across the river, before doubling back and re-crossing on foot. When Chise and Beatrice both agreed they had not been followed, they proceeded to the Japanese Embassy.

It was a complex of buildings, most in a traditional Japanese pattern. They entered a wrought iron gate, and walked down a walkway lined with transplanted cherry trees, resplendent with pink petals.

Marilla took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh.

"Beautiful," she whispered, a smile spreading across her lips.

Chise grinned widely at her.

"Is it not? Traditionally, one would sit under the trees, and drink sake. It is a lovely custom."

"Which we don't have time for," Beatrice said quietly.

Chise's grin melted, and she glanced at the other girl.

"Sadly, you are correct."

"Once this is over, we can do that," Marilla said hopefully.

"Next year. The blossoms will have fallen before then."

Marilla looked at Chise. She couldn't help but smile.

"Next year, then."

After a few more moments of walking, they were met by a pair of samurai who led them to Horikawa's chambers.

...

After they had eaten, the three sat before Horikawa: Chise kneeling, Beatrice and Marilla sitting cross-legged. Marilla had her arms wrapped loosely around Chise's.

"Beatrice-san. Marilla-san. I am prepared to offer the two of you any and all protections that you need."

Marilla tightened her grip on Chise's arm.

"I ... thank you, sir."

He nodded in her direction. He then glanced at Beatrice.

"You are aware, I assume, of the uncertain status of your team."

Beatrice nodded.

"Yeah."

"As I say, you are henceforth under my protection, whenever and however it is needed."

"Thank you, Lord Horikawa."

Horikawa glanced at Marilla again. A thin grin crossed his lips.

"So, you are the western girl that has stolen my Chise's heart."

Pink dusted Marilla's cheeks, and she shrugged.

"I suppose so."

Horikawa chuckled.

"Don't be so coy. Since she has returned to London, there has barely been a sentence out of Chise's lips that has not begun or ended with Marilla."

Her blush deepened.

"Ahh. Well ... there is a certain ... attraction."

Horikawa nodded.

"Again, you are coy. Well, I understand your reluctance to admit it. Love affairs between girls are not well regarded by many, though you needn't fear anything here. That said, I trust you won't object to separate quarters."

He glanced between the two, his grin widening. Both Chise and Marilla blushed.

"That will be acceptable," Chise replied.

...

The night was still, and moderately warm. Beatrice stood on a balcony, overlooking the lake beside the Japanese Embassy. She wore a light blue yukata, and a matching ribbon around her throat. Her hair was loose, hanging down to her shoulders. She wore sandal-toed socks.

The stars were out above. She looked up at them. It was a beautiful night.

She felt a hand gently touch her back, and she turned. Chise, similarly dressed in a dark blue yukata with a white floral pattern, stood beside her.

"It's really beautiful here," Beatrice whispered.

"Yes. It makes me feel at home."

Beatrice smiled, though there was more than a hint of sadness to the expression. She looked up toward the stars.

"Beato, do you feel like talking?"

Beatrice shivered. Chise moved closer to her, her arm around Beatrice's waist.

"I was weak. I failed. I couldn't fight back or escape."

"Nonsense," Chise spat with some heat. "You did escape."

Beatrice shrugged.

"Only because ... I mean, not until after the damage had been done. Chise ... they could have done anything to me. I couldn't have stopped them."

Chise looked at her. Tears were leaking from her eyes.

"No, Beato. Do not overthink. You are alive. You did escape. You are intact, in the ways that are important."

Beatrice shrugged again.

Chise turned to face her, and Beatrice turned also. She threw her arms around Chise's body, burying her face in her chest. She trembled. She sobbed.

Chise closed her eyes, and embraced Beatrice as tightly as she could. Her hands gently moved up and down her back in slow circles.

"I was weak," Beatrice repeated. "I should be dead now. It was only luck. Only luck that kept me alive."

"Beato."

Beatrice clung to Chise. Chise held her as she cried. Chise was unable to prevent tears from flowing out of her own eyes.

"Beato, I am sorry that this happened. It is my fault. My weakness led to this."

Beatrice pulled back, shaking her head. Chise's eyes opened, and met Beatrice's gaze.

"No, Chise. You ... you're so very strong. I can't imagine being as strong as you are."

"Beato. You are far stronger than you believe yourself to be. You say that you are weak. I did see that room."

Beatrice winced and trembled.

"I know of many men, trained samurai, who would have cracked under such conditions. You did not."

"No. Chise, I ... I did. Can't you see that?"

Chise forced a thin smile to her face.

"No, Beato. I do not see a broken person before me. I see a very strong one. One who has survived being shot ...."

Beatrice laughed at this, before sniffling, and shrugging.

"And being beaten to within an inch of her life. And you _did_ escape. You _did_ survive. Your light is dimmed now, I can tell. But think of an oil lamp. It can dim when its fuel or its wick is low. And yet it can be refilled. It can glow brightly again. It can never truly be extinguished."

Beatrice shrugged.

"Beato, I love you."

Beatrice's eyes went wide, and her cheeks reddened.

"Not in the way that Dorothy does, I admit. You are, to me, a profoundly precious friend. My life is more complete with you in it. I believe that I am not the only one who feels this way, Beato."

Beatrice smiled, even as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I ... I love you too, Chise."

They embraced tightly. They held each other on a porch overlooking a lake under the stars. Neither girl held back from crying.

After a time, which neither one bothered to track, they pulled away from each other. Slowly. They wiped one another's cheeks. Chise leaned in to very softly kiss Beatrice's forehead, and the younger girl, blushing, kissed Chise's cheek in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (belated, sorry) thanks to Trans_Homura for beta-reading an earlier version of this chapter. Due to her feedback, fairly major changes (improvements for certain) were made between that and this version.


	16. Pursuit of Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ange and Dorothy are hot on the trail, first to Tangier then to Marseille.

The young teen shivered in a wheelchair. She was tightly bundled in blankets, a scarf wrapped around her pale face. Green-tinted, oval sunglasses covered her eyes, and a white straw hat sat on the top of her blonde head.

The chair was pushed by a young woman with short blonde hair, in an off-white suit, immaculately pressed pants that were stuffed into knee-high leather boots, and a thin red tie.

The dock workers, sweating in the unseasonably warm early morning sun, watched them pass with a mixture of surprise and pity.

There had been rumors: A young girl, doomed to be struck down due to cruel illness before her time. She had been weathering in the balmy climate of North Africa, or so the rumors stated. She desired to return home, to Marseille, one last time before ....

The ship wasn't large. The woman had been concerned more with speed than comfort.

She started to push the wheelchair up the gangway. She frowned at the effort. A man wearing a dark blue uniform approached her.

"Do you need assistance with your sister?"

He spoke English with a faint French accent.

"No thank you. I have been caring for her these last few years and ...."

She leaned in close to the man, dropping her voice.

"Well, soon enough the burden will be lifted from my shoulders after all."

The man nodded understandably, and placed a comforting hand on her forearm. He looked at the girl in the wheelchair. Her face was pale. She shivered.

He shook his head in pity.

...

Zelda pushed the wheelchair through the passages of the ship. When she reached their cabin, she pushed the chair in, then closed and locked the door behind her.

"Well done, Your Highness," she quipped, words oozing with sarcasm. "Have you considered a career in theater?"

Charlotte flinched back, as Zelda reached down to pull away the hat, and blankets and scarf. Beneath, Charlotte was clothed only in her bloomers and camisole. Ice-packs rested in her lap and against her chest, making Charlotte cold despite the heat and the blankets. Ropes held her wrists and ankles together. A cloth gag was tied around her mouth. Zelda tugged this down as well.

"Marseille," Charlotte said, dry throat making her voice crack. "How far do you think you can run before ...."

"As far as I care to: Paris. Berlin. Kristiania. New York. Peking. And yes, I do fully intend to give your darling Ange the warmest possible welcome wherever and whenever she catches up to us."

...

The man behind the desk was a portly man of middle-eastern descent. He wore a beige suit, white shirt, and red bow-tie. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip. He suppressed a yawn. It had been a slow day.

An attractive young European girl entered the lounge, a look of uncertainty, if not fear, on her face. She had ash-blonde hair, and pale blue eyes partly concealed behind oval glasses. She wore a black and grey dress, that appeared to have seen better days.

"Ohh," she muttered, fidgeting uncertainly. She glanced around the lounge for a few moments. "Oh no," she finally whimpered.

"Mademoiselle? May I be of assistance?" His English was clear, with only the lightest of Syrian accents.

She jumped with a soft squeal of surprise, turning as though she hadn't noticed him before. Her lips trembled.

He smiled, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"If you are looking for a person ...."

"Ah! yes. Yes, I ... a friend told me to meet her here. I ... I don't see her. Oh, I hope this is the right place."

She trotted over to the desk.

"Well. I am not on duty at all hours, but if you tell me her name ...."

The girl shrugged.

"Her .. her name is Zelda."

The girl pulled a photograph out of her purse, and handed it to the man.

A brief look of surprise crossed his face, then he looked at the picture.

"Mademoiselle, a thousand apologies. I do not recognize the lady. As I say however, I am not on duty at all times."

She pouted.

"Do ... you think that I might be able to ask some of the other hotel employees? I mean ... I've never been to Tangier before and ... well, I just don't know what I'd do if I can't find her."

The man smiled.

"Of course, mademoiselle. Take your time."

He handed the photograph back to her. And discreetly pocketed the rather large franc note that had been folded beneath it.

"Thank you! You're a life-saver."

Ange trotted out of the room, placing the photograph back in her purse. She slowed down, walking into the bar, beside the entrance lounge. She had agreed to meet Dorothy here. She saw her sitting at a table, a tall glass with amber fluid in it in front of her, and a shorter glass stein filled with a lighter liquid.

When she sat down beside Dorothy, the older girl smirked widely.

"The hell was that," Dorothy chuckled.

Ange shrugged, not surprised that Dorothy had been watching.

"It seemed the easiest way to gain access to the hotel's staff."

...

Ange, in a sharpish light red dress, still wearing her oval glasses, strolled casually into the restaurant of the Hotel Americana. The place was slow. Few customers. A good opportunity, perhaps.

"Good afternoon ma'am. How many will it be today?" the waitress near the front asked, a wide and brilliant smile on her face. She had dark curly hair and pale green eyes. She was European, but the light tan of her skin told Ange that the girl was no stranger to Tangier.

Ange smiled softly, her eyes friendly.

"Hello. I was wondering if you had time to answer a question?"

"Oh. I mean, I suppose so. It is a slow shift after all."

Ange nodded.

"I've been looking for a friend of mine. It's my first time in Tangier, so I really don't want to miss her."

"I see. Well, I don't know if I can help you, but I will if I can. What did she look like?"  
Ange's smile widened just a touch.

"I have her photograph."

Ange pulled it out from her purse.

"Oh!"

The moment she saw the photograph, the waitress' cheeks turned red. She shifted her weight, and found it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact with Ange.

"Yes. Yes, I do ... I do remember her."

Ange nodded.

"Did she stay at the hotel?"

The waitress nodded.

"Yes. She was very ... memorable."

Her blush deepened.

Ange's stomach twisted, but she forced her smile to remain on her lips.

"Yes, indeed. Is she still here?"

  
"Oh, no ma'am. She said she had to take her dying sister back to Marseille. So sad."

Ange nodded.

"It is a true tragedy, yes. I had hoped to meet them before they left. Do you by chance know when they left, and by what means?"

"Well. She checked out of the hotel yesterday morning. I remember quite well because ...."

Her blush deepened.

Ange placed a hand on her forearm.

"I understand. You needn't tell me the details if you don't wish."

The girl nodded.

"It's fine. I had to ... that is, I had to wake up too, even though I wasn't on duty that day. She was ... apologetic, but explained her boat left early, so ...."

"I see. Were you noticed by any other members of the staff?"

"No! It is quite against the rules to ... _mingle_ with the guests. The lady was ... both persistent and discreet. Amongst other things, that is." She couldn't quite suppress a shy giggle.

Ange fought down a feeling of nausea.

"Well. Thank you very much."

"Oh, of course. Oh! If you do happen to see her again ... can you please tell her that ... that Abigail remembers her?"

"Abigail? Of course."

"Thank you."

...

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle la Carré?"

"Yes?" Ange replied.

"I have something for you," he continued in French.

"Yes, what is it," Ange replied in the same language.

"It is a safety-deposit box. Or rather, the contents thereof. Your friend, Zelda, apparently left it for you."

"Left it? She didn't take her belongings?"

"No mademoiselle. I have only just noticed this myself. There is a note left at the desk, with the key, that the contents of the box are to be given to one Ange Le Carré."

Ange nodded.

"I see. Thank you."

...

Ange fit the key into the deposit box. Dorothy glanced at her. The desk clerk cleared his throat, lightly bobbing up and down on his toes.

She turned the key, and opened the box.

"Charlotte's dress," Dorothy muttered quietly.

Ange frowned. The light blue dress had been sliced down the front by a knife.

Beside the Princess' shoes and socks that were also in the box, there was a postcard, showing a seaside road, a cityscape in the background.

"Marseille. _La Corniche,_ " Ange read the caption.

The scent of a perfume Princess was known to wear tickled Ange's senses. She turned the postcard over.

Below a return address in Marseille, Zelda had written a short message, in clear and crisp script:

 

_"Catch me if you can."_

 

Dorothy and Ange shared a look.

...

"Where were you?!"

Zelda frowned, glancing at Charlotte. She still sat in the wheelchair, a blanket loosely draped over her shoulders. A cloth gag still prevented her from speaking, but her glare screamed anger, contempt, and fear. Her wrists and ankles were still bound by rope.

"Obtaining half of my goal."

"And while you were gallivanting about in the desert, the 'Ninja' was taking my operations apart. Your men were worse than useless!"

"The girl you're after, Daisy, will be along shortly. Your goal is revenge, and you'll meet that goal."

"I didn't want to lose my empire over it! I swear, if you and your useless men continue to fail ...."

Her hand was around his throat before he could react, her fingers digging in dangerously, behind his windpipe. Her expression was darker than Frankie had ever seen.

"Choose your next words very carefully, _friend_."

She held him like that for a long moment. Before finally releasing him with a hiss of contempt.

He staggered back, gasping, and holding a hand to his throat. Zelda turned her back to him, gazing on the Princess with eyes still smoldering with rage.

"Your 'empire' means nothing to me. I promised to enable your revenge, and I am doing so. You'll still get your Daisy to torture, or _fuck_ , or whatever you care to do to her. If we reacquire her you can have Becky as well. My interest is in the girl you know as Alice...."

Frankie winced at the name.

Zelda placed a hand on Princess' shoulder, and allowed a thin smile to cross her lips as the girl squirmed in disgust.

"And in Her Royal Highness here."

...

Zelda glanced dubiously into the empty back compartment of a cargo lorry. It had thin wooden sides, completely enclosing whatever cargo was placed within.

"Is this the best method to transport her to Paris?"

Frankie frowned.

"Contrary to what you may believe, I am not an idiot."

Zelda refrained from commenting.

"Would you prefer to toss her naked in the back of a touring-car? For any interested policeman to notice?"

Zelda frowned.

"Of course not. I am questioning the wisdom of tossing her in the back of a lorry like a sack of produce."

Frankie grinned lewdly at Charlotte.

"Surely this tomato would not be silly enough to leap out of a vehicle racing down the road. No, this way she is out of sight."

Zelda frowned, and turned away from Frankie. She gave a curt nod to the two men that had been selected to drive.

They grabbed Charlotte by her ankles and shoulders, and despite her wriggling struggles, dropped her down in the vehicle.

The double rear doors were closed with a final-sounding clang. A thin sliver of light slipped through in between them

She glanced around herself frantically. There was nothing but space. She could move around, wriggling her legs and body, but there was nowhere to go.

The engine started, and the lorry began to move, the sudden lurch throwing her off-balance.

What was there to do but wait? Again. She had lost track of time. It felt like yesterday, and it felt like a million years ago, that she had been in her kitchen in Casablanca. That she had been making couscous. Such a simple thing. A domestic thing.

Since then she had been stripped and humiliated, threatened, carried and tossed like a sack of flour. She felt dirty. Her bloomers and camisole were stained. Soiled with both dirt and the association with weakness. She wanted to strip out of them and burn them.

...

Dorothy and Ange sat on a rooftop.

The night was dark and clear.

"That the place?" Dorothy asked. She pushed a shotgun shell into an empty cylinder of her heavy revolver.

_Thank God for safe-house supply caches_ , she told herself.

Ange lowered her field glasses, and glanced at Dorothy.

"Yes. The address on the post-card matches that of this warehouse."

"Looks empty," Dorothy whispered. She loaded another shell.

Ange nodded.

"Indeed. It may be a trap."

Dorothy loaded the fifth and last shell into her gun.

"Hope so. I happen to have a lot of pent up frustration right now," she hissed, slamming the gun closed.

Ange allowed a thin smile to cross her lips.

"Just be sure of where you are aiming. I would prefer not to have to pull errant grapeshot out of my backside."

Dorothy laughed.

"No shooting Ange's backside. Roger!"

...

Charlotte found herself jostled awake. Her eyes opened, and she sat up. Still bound. She was still in the empty cargo area of a lorry. It was mostly dark, with light shining in through the crack between the doors intermittently. And the vehicle was still moving.

She started to lay back down, trying to settle into as comfortable a position as she could manage. She hissed in pain as she felt a sharp edge slice into her arm.  
She sat up quickly, and looked down.

A small shard of metal poked up between two of the floor-boards. She swallowed, ignoring the feeling of blood oozing down her arm.

Carefully this time, she angled her arms down. Placing her wrists just above the metal shard. Lowering them carefully, so the metal bit into the rope binding her. She continued, with an agonizingly slow sawing motion. She could feel the rope loosen with each passing moment. Fibers breaking free, until finally the rope snapped. She sat up, moving her arms in front of her. Balling her fingers into tight fists, and then rubbing her sore, chaffed wrists. Then she pulled the cloth gag from her mouth taking a deep breath.

Her arm was scratched. It was superficial, and the blood had already stopped flowing. Not before it had dribbled down to the floorboard around the metal.

She ignored this as well. Reaching down, she tested the ropes at her ankles. Too tight to loosen this way, she again carefully shifted and angled the ropes above the metal. After a few more agonizing minutes, and jarring shudders when the lorry passed over rough sections of road, she found her ankles free as well.

She rubbed them, feeling a small dribble of blood where the sharp metal had bitten into her skin.

And just then, she felt the motion of the lorry slow, and then finally stop.

She hastily pulled the gag back over her mouth, and curled up, careful to avoid the metal. She pulled her hands and her feet behind her. She closed her eyes.

After a moment, she heard the rear door of the lorry open. An electric torch was shone in on her. She shivered, opening her eyes. She glanced up, trying to look afraid and helpless.

"See. Told you. Have some faith in our employer, mate."

"I've more faith in our _boss_ , mate."

"She ain't always right. She pulled a right boner with the temple job, didn't she?"

"Guess so. You drive here on out."

"Gotcha."

The door was closed. Charlotte paused for a moment, before sitting back up. The lorry did not start moving again.

She pulled the gag down, and moved over to the door.

Gingerly, she pushed. The door slowly opened.

She peeked out. They were stopped at a petrol station. The light was dim, but enough to see that the road was surrounded by forest.

Carefully, she eased herself down to the ground. The gravel was rough under her bare feet, but she forced herself to ignore this.

Peeking around to the driver side, she saw one man standing next to the fuel pump. He was obviously refueling the lorry. The other man was no where to be seen. Probably within the station itself.

She carefully closed the rear doors, and looked around to the passenger side.

No one, only empty shadow.

She weighed her options. She did not know where she was. From Marseille, they could have driven east into Piedmont, north into Burgundy, or southwest toward Catalonia. Most likely they were still in France, angling northwest to Paris.

Wherever she was, she felt the need to escape. She felt confident in all the languages she could possibly encounter, whichever direction they had gone.

She glanced back to the man fueling the lorry. When she was certain he wouldn't come back around, she turned and ran.

She crossed a small patch of brown, scraggly grass fighting the cold and pollution to grow, and then ran out onto the tarmac.

It was too cold to be sticky, and there was no traffic in either direction.

Once across the road, she dove into the ditch. Shivering. She might as well have been naked, for all the thin underclothes protected her from the cold air and icy, muddy water of the ditch. She forced herself to bear it.

Then after a moment she heard the sound of a car door opening. She peeked up. A man was climbing up into the passenger side of the lorry. The lorry rumbled to life, with a puff of dark exhaust.

They hadn't checked the back!

After a moment, the lorry lurched forward, and trundled down the road. Vanishing entirely in a minute.

She rose, and ran.

...

Frankie was all smiles.

"I told you this would go smoothly."

Zelda's expression remained neutral.

"The lorry's arrived. How about the cargo?"

Frankie shrugged, and nodded at the drivers. Technically Zelda's men, they nevertheless promptly opened the cargo doors.

Frankie, eyes closed, gestured dramatically.

Zelda looked in, and frowned.

"Nicely done," she said, an edge of sarcasm to her voice.

"Huh?"

Frankie turned and looked.

Empty. Except for two frayed, cut lengths of rope.

His eyes went wide, and color drained from his face.

"I ... that is ...."

She glared at Frankie for one moment, then climbed into the back of the truck. She noticed the glint of metal, and a dribble of dried blood. She knelt down, carefully pulling the metal shard out of the floorboard where it was wedged.

"A well-considered plan. So, I trust you," she said, pointing the bloody metal at the men who had driven the lorry, "checked diligently each time you came to a stop? Both when you stopped, _and_ before pulling away again?"

They glanced at one another.

"Umm. Yes ma'am."

"I see. Then you explain this how?"

They shifted awkwardly.

"She ... must've jumped out."

She dropped the metal, and awkwardly climbed out of the lorry.

"While it was moving?"

"Yeah?"

"And you did not see her?"

"Well ... no."

"Then I imagine she must be lying on the roadside with her legs broken. Likely frozen to death by now."

"Ahh, well .…"

Zelda drew her revolver. The two men and Frankie all made sounds of fear, and covered their faces.

"How is it that you have managed to stay alive for so long? Are you not too stupid to live?"

"We ... that is .…"

"Quiet. You followed your planned route between Marseille and Paris?"

They nodded.

"Good. Then we only need trace it back. Gather my men. We're leaving to find her."

"Wait! I need men here, to spring the trap!"

"There is no bloody trap you God-damned fool! Not without the Princess."

Frankie took a deep breath, and allowed anger to show on his face.

"The ninja and the clockwork doll will be here, and maybe others. I know this is not in your carefully laid out plans, but I need some men here."

Zelda scowled. After a moment, she holstered her revolver.

“If the Princess escapes entirely due to this … fine, we’ll deal with them first. Once we’ve killed the ninja and retaken the girl we’ll track down the others.”

Frankie breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Thank you”

“Thank me later. If this all falls through you’re a dead man, one way or another.”

He swallowed fearfully.

...

The night was cold. Charlotte barely felt it. She ran. She wanted to be as far away from the road, and the petrol station, as she could manage. The exertion kept her warm enough to keep moving.

The tree branches clutched at her as she ran. She batted them away from her face as well as she could, but they scratched her cheeks, and her arms, and her legs. They snagged her bloomers and camisole. Her shoulder impacted more than one trunk.

After what seemed an eternity, she broke out from the forest into a field. She carefully navigated her way around the young, immature crops. Angling toward a brown wooden barn that sat on the edge.

No choice. She would apologize later. She tugged on the door, finding it unlocked.

She could barely see, and moved forward slowly, feeling with her hands, and legs. Moving until she found a bed of straw, covered by a tarp. Cold and exhaustion finally took its toll and she collapsed, barely managing to find the strength to cover herself with the rough cloth. She closed her eyes, and felt her body warm, even as sleep finally conquered her.

...

Dorothy and Ange dropped down onto the warehouse roof as the radiation from the C-ball dissipated. A skylight window was open. Invitingly.

Dorothy shook her head. Unnecessarily, as Ange had already started to look for a less obvious point of entry.

Dorothy pointed at a door. Ange frowned, glancing between it and the skylight.

Deciding off the cuff that the skylight was slightly less likely to be booby-trapped, she crouched over it, looking in carefully. Dorothy crouched beside her.

"Trap on the door?"

Ange nodded.

"I believe so."

"What's the move?"

Ange glowed green, and carefully stepped into the space above the skylight. She flipped upside down, her skirt held in place by the C-ball's defiance of physics. She floated slowly down, to peek inside the building.

Dorothy looked at Ange's skirt and legs. She smirked, but refrained from making the comment that popped into her head.

Ange floated back up and flipped right-side round.

"It is safe, for what it is worth."

Dorothy nodded, and holding her shotgun one-handed, placed an arm over Ange's shoulder. They slowly descended.

The warehouse was dark. Obviously empty. Which if anything made both spies more nervous.

They reached the floor, and the green glow again stopped.

Dorothy crouched, bringing her left hand to the forearm of her gun. At her back, Ange similarly crouched, swept her Webley-Fosbery across the empty space.

Without speaking, they rose simultaneously, slowly moving toward opposite sides of the warehouse. It took only a few minutes to confirm that the building was empty.

Dorothy noticed that Ange had holstered her revolver, and was examining something on a table. Curious, she moved over toward her. Paranoia making her keep her gun at the ready. When she reached Ange's side, she saw a postcard. Lying beside a lock of platinum-blonde hair.

"Princess'?"

Ange nodded once, and picked up the postcard.

"Eiffel tower," Dorothy whispered in frustration.

Ange turned the postcard over. Once again, below a return address in Paris, there was a message in Zelda's neat, crisp script:

 

_'Tis a lesson you should heed--_

_Try, try, try again._

_If at first you don't succeed,_

_try, try, try again._

 

Without warning, Ange drove her fist down onto the wooden table. It buckled with a sharp crack.

...

Charlotte's eyes opened slowly. Light streamed in from gaps in the barn wall. She was sore. Slowly she sat up. Straw stuck to the skin of her arms and legs. She yawned, and couldn't help scratching. Her skin was scratched in many places. Mud and dirt stuck to her bare legs and feet. She was, if nothing else, warm enough.

She stood up, and looked around. In the darkness of the night, she had missed many details. With a grim smile, she walked only a few feet to where a pair of denim overalls hung from a peg on the wall, over a pair of worn boots. She slipped them on. They were several sizes too large, and she had to roll the legs up to keep from tripping. Still, she was covered. She felt better.

There was nothing else of use in the barn. She walked over to the door, and opened it just enough to peek out. She could see men in the field. What task they were performing she couldn't tell, but they appeared to be distracted. Perhaps it had been mere luck that no one had checked the barn first.

After a moment of indecision, she decided it would be best not to let them discover her.

As quickly and quietly as she could, in the ill-fitting boots, she ran across the space between the barn and the woods.

...

Dorothy whistled softly to herself. It was that old song. Once it reminded her of her parents. Now, it belonged to Beatrice. Her heart ached. Dorothy continued whistling. She wanted to remember Beatrice, even if it hurt.

She blinked, and glanced at the gas pump. The liters steadily went up, as did the fee.

Ange walked out of the gas station, holding a brown paper bag.

"I got us some breakfast."

Dorothy nodded.

"About halfway there," she stated.

"Indeed."

Ange climbed into the passenger seat, and opened the bag. She pulled out several sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, and two bottles of sugary soda. Dorothy shook her head.

"American breakfast today?"

Ange shrugged.

"It was available for sale."

Dorothy laughed quietly, and stopped the gas pump. She carefully pulled the nozzle out of the car's tank.

"We good?"

Ange glanced at the amount owed, and nodded.

"Yes. I paid a few francs above that."

"Good. I really don't wanna call any more attention to us than necessary."

Ange glanced at her, and Dorothy shrugged.

"Technically we stole this car."

Ange nodded, and Dorothy hung the nozzle back on a hook on the side of the pump.

"That'll get us to Paris at least. Hope we don't find another damn postcard."

Ange said nothing. As Dorothy climbed into the driver seat, she handed her a sandwich, and a glass bottle.

"Here we are in France, and I'm eating a ham sandwich and drinking a cola."

"I shall treat you to a proper dinner in Paris."

"I'll hold you to that, Ange," Dorothy said with a smirk.

She took a bite of her sandwich, washed it down with a swig of soda, and started the engine.

Just as she was about to put the car in gear, the two girls saw a person in the woods on the opposite side of the road. A young woman. Blonde. Her face was marred by scratches and streaked mud, but there was an underlying brilliant beauty that made both Dorothy and Ange stop. 

Ange swallowed. Her breath caught in her throat. She opened the passenger side door, and started to exit the car.

The other girl glanced both directions along the road, then walked across. Her blonde hair was, simply put, a mess. It had not been combed for some time. A twig stuck out from one side. She wore denim overalls, and boots that were several sizes too big for her feet. Stray straws were stuck to her shoulders and forearms.

Dorothy shut off the car and opened her door. As she started to stand, Ange walked over toward the other girl.

They had the same eyes. The same deep, rich blue eyes. And their gazes, once locked, never faltered. Not as Ange picked up her pace. Or the other girl moved to her. Nor as their arms wrapped around one another.

Dorothy took a few tentative steps to the other two.

"Ange," Ange whispered softly.

Dorothy blinked in confusion, but had enough presence of mind to let it pass, just for the moment.

"Charlotte," the other girl, the Princess, whispered in response.


	17. Dance of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set. The final confrontation looms. Life and death hangs in the balance. Not everyone will be walking away from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thanks and shout-out to Trans_Homura for beta-reading this chapter.

Beatrice woke up with a stiff back. She frowned and yawned. She rose with a groan, and took a quick bath. Somewhat refreshed, she slipped into a fresh yellow yukata, and tied a yellow ribbon around her neck, taking the time to make a cute bow over her throat. She padded out into the hallway, and wrinkled her nose.

It was the sharp, sour smell of foreign food. Beatrice was hungry, and she wasn't about to be rude enough to refuse Lord Horikawa's hospitality, but she started to understand Chise's quiet dread of breakfasts.

When she arrived at Horikawa's meeting chamber, she found Chise and Marilla sitting at the low table. Chise was kneeling, and wearing her dark blue yukata. Marilla sat cross-legged beside her, in a pink yukata with red floral print. She watched as Chise lifted a piece of fish with her chopsticks. Marilla opened her mouth to accept it.

"Mmmm. S'good," she said through a full mouth.

Chise grinned.

"Far better than the slop one finds in this country."

Beatrice sighed, and padded into the room.

"Hey, I happen to like kippers and black pudding," Marilla protested.

Chise shuddered.

"Good morning, you two," Beatrice said with a smirk.

"Ahh, Beato. good morning," Chise replied with a nod.

"Morning," Marilla said.

Beatrice settled down at the table, and looked dubiously at the food. There was a pot of some sort of dark soup, a plate of grilled fish, another plate with several unbroken eggs, a pile of green sheets of some sort (they smelled vaguely like the ocean, Beatrice noted), a bottle of soy sauce, and a big bowl filled with rice. She recognized the rice, and scooped some into an empty bowl set for her. She then selected several pieces of fish.

Chise glanced at her.

"Do not forget the egg."

Beatrice nodded and grabbed an egg off of a plate. She frowned.

"Wait ... this doesn't feel like it's been boiled."

Marilla nodded.

"It's raw."

Beatrice's face turned green.

"Raw?”

"You mix it in the rice and pour in some soy sauce. It's actually pretty good."

Chise beamed proudly at Marilla, and looked expectantly at Beatrice.

Chise and Marilla both looked disappointed when Beatrice gently placed the egg back onto the plate.

...

Once they had eaten, Lord Horikawa entered the chamber. Chise bowed respectfully toward him.

"I have information for you," he stated.

"About our absent comrades," Chise asked.

"Yes. Your friends were last spotted in Tangier, boarding a ferry bound for Marseille. The details are sketchy, as our links with the Commonwealth are currently tenuous at best, but we believe they are following Zelda."

"Marseille?" Beatrice frowned. "They'll be going to Paris then."

Lord Horikawa nodded.

"That is what I believe as well."

"Can we go there too?" Marilla asked.

Chise placed a hand on her forearm.

"Yes, that is most likely a good idea. I would feel better were you to remain behind, however."

"No," Marilla said sharply. "I lost you once already, Chise. I don't want to again."

"You may be hurt, or worse."

Marilla turned to Chise, lightly cupping her chin in her hand.

"I am willing to be hurt, or to be killed, just so I don't lose you again."

"Chise is correct," Lord Horikawa stated.

Marilla's cheeks turned red, and she turned back to the man.

"With all due respect, your Lordship ... I will not leave Chise's side."

He frowned.

"I will not stop or restrain you. In a way I admire your sentiment. I will simply emphasize that this is a dangerous business, and no place for civilians."

Marilla nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And ignore it studiously," Chise stated.

Marilla looked at her with a wide-eyed, hurt expression. Chise shrugged.

"I will not send you away, Marilla. Even though I would rather die a thousand painful deaths than to have you harmed."

"I feel the same for you," she whispered.

Lord Horikawa cleared his throat.

"In any case. There is one vital piece of information missing: The location in Paris where the Princess is being held."

"It should be easy to find," Beatrice said. "They want us to go there."

Chise nodded.

"Yes. We found many papers in Frankie's abandoned warehouse."

"My men have analyzed what you found. There was no information pertaining to Paris."

Beatrice sighed.

"So what do we do?"

"Frankie has an established place of business. My contacts within the Kingdom suggest that it has been under surveillance by the police for some time, though no action has been taken."

"We infiltrate that location," Chise said.

"You mean break in," Marilla said with a grin.

Chise glanced at her.

"Yes. For this, I shall insist that you remain here."

...

That evening, Chise, Beatrice and two of Horikawa’s samurai left the embassy compound, and made their way to Frankie’s office. Chise wore her usual outfit. Beatrice wore a baggy black jumpsuit, similar to Chise's but with full sleeves and fingerless gloves. Like Chise, Beatrice wore a black mask over her nose and mouth. She didn't wear a hat, and her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, rather than her usual twin-bun style.

The four found themselves on a gently sloped roof overlooking the old, low, brick building. They could not help but notice the two lurking men, one in a Deerstalker hat and outdated black suit, the other in a dark brown tweed suit and flat-cap.

“Scotland Yard,” Beatrice whispered.

Chise nodded.

“We have to get in there,” Beatrice continued.

“Leave the police to us," one of the samurai said, "Go on our signal.”

“No killing,” Beatrice said with a frown.

“Beato,” Chise said, “I am offended that you would assume that to be the only way to deal with such an obstacle.”

Beatrice shrugged.

“I don’t. I just don’t want them to be killed. They’re not really our enemies.”

Chise regarded her for a moment with a frown, before turning to the samurai.

“We will be ready,” she said.

They nodded, and ran off. After a moment, first one and then the other detective found themselves quietly pulled into the darkness. Shortly afterward, there was a flash of light. Chise glanced at Beatrice, who nodded. She secured a grappling hook into the roof, and Chise wrapped her arms around Beatrice’s shoulders. They stepped off the roof edge, gently lowering to the ground.

Chise released Beatrice just before they set down, and ran to a rear door. She pulled out her katana, and was preparing to cut the door open, when Beatrice hissed at her. Chise glanced at her, and Beatrice, brows knit, brandished a set of lockpicks. Chise rolled her eyes, but stepped back to allow the younger girl to work.

Beatrice took a deep breath, slipping the wrench and a pick into the lock. After a minute of fiddling, there was a satisfying click. Beatrice glanced at Chise, and pulled the door open. Chise nodded, genuinely impressed.

…

The office had been abandoned, but most of the paperwork had been left behind. Beatrice guessed that Frankie intended to return. In any case, a mind-numbing search that lasted nearly an hour led at last to a stack of invoices for a warehouse. In Paris. Beatrice gathered these up, and she and Chise left the building. The samurai met them, and they returned to the embassy.

…

“So,” Beatrice said as Lord Horikawa listened, “it seems that Frankie and Zelda invested in warehouse operations in Marseille and Paris. They did just enough business to make it seem legit. Unlike the one here in London, which he basically just set up as a prison."

Marilla frowned.

"And you said there were detectives watching his place?`"

"Yes," Chise said.

"And the same people sent you a note saying where I was?"

Beatrice glanced at Marilla.

"Well ... the Home Office does control the police as well as the Secret Service Bureau."

"It's like they knew where I was, and what was going to happen, and chose not to act," Marilla said bitterly.

Chise placed an arm around Marilla's waist comfortingly.

"Ah," Beatrice said, shifting awkwardly. "I ... kinda thought the same thing."

"We have their address," Lord Horikawa said.

"Yes," Chise replied.

"I have contacts in France. I must stay here, but I can arrange for you to travel there safely."

...

Beatrice dozed. The gentle rocking of the Pullman had lured her into an uneasy, but quite needed, sleep. They had embarked on a train in London, bound for Paris via the Dover-Calais tunnel. At the border between Calais and France, Beatrice had awkwardly shown a forged passport to the authorities. They seemed somewhat dubious, as Beatrice looked quite un-Japanese, but they nevertheless didn't raise any issues. The train passed out of Albion's Continental territory around Calais into France early in the evening. That was some three hours ago.

Marilla, like Beatrice, had been lulled to sleep. Her head rested softly on Chise's shoulder. She had used her own passport. Beatrice wasn't certain whether she was more surprised that she had one, or that the border guards accepted her traveling in company with two "Japanese" girls without question.

One of Horikawa's samurai sat on the bench beside Beatrice. He kept his eyes averted from the other two, occasionally sharing a glance with Chise.

There was a knock at the door to their cabin. Beatrice and Marilla both sat up slowly.

"Yes," Chise called out.

The door slid open, and the conductor glanced inside.

"We shall be arriving at Paris Lyons station in another minute," he stated in accented English.

Beatrice yawned, and smiled sleepily in his direction. " _Merci beaucoup_ ," she replied.

He nodded, and closed the door.

The train pulled into the station, and they disembarked. Marilla and Chise walked hand-in-hand, ignoring the stares and muttered comments this drew.

At the station entrance, they were met by a European man in a dark trenchcoat and bowler hat. He said something to Chise in Japanese, and the girl nodded. He then turned to Beatrice.

"We have secured rooms, and have arranged a time when the police will be conveniently looking the other way."

"Ah," Beatrice said with a nod. "Um. Thank you."

He gestured toward a hard-top sedan parked at the curb.

...

Marilla, in the rear seat between Chise and Beatrice, closed her eyes and again allowed her cheek to come to rest against the Japanese girl.

Beatrice closed her eyes as well. She felt sore. Her wound no longer throbbed, but every part of her body felt pain otherwise. She focused on Dorothy.

Imagined the soft caresses of her hands. The long silken tresses of her hair, and the electric tingle where her lips touched her skin. It had been so long since she had seen her. Felt her. Smelled her. It felt like forever. The nagging fear at the back of her brain told her she'd never be with her again. Kilometers separated them. Many thousands of kilometers. No, the distance wasn't the real problem, was it? It was the blood. The tears. The fear.

Briefly, Josie intruded into her her musings. Her pale blue eyes, and blonde hair. Her soft, gentle touch. And she felt a tremor of cold terror. Of Dorothy, crying. Shouting at Beatrice. Shouting at Josie. And then the whistling sound of a cane swung through the air and the heavy, fleshy thud ....

She awoke with a frightened squeak.

The man turned to the back seat.

"We've arrived at the hotel. We go to the warehouse tomorrow evening."

...

A warm breeze blew. It tugged at Beatrice's black bodysuit. She ignored it. It didn't matter. Her eyes were locked at the brick structure across the road from where she knelt. The skyline behind it would have been beautiful at any other time. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe to the left, the mooring masts of Le Bourget airport to the right ... they all glowed with light. With the dark velvet background of the night, it would be worthy of a painting.

She didn't notice. She blinked once, and glanced at her revolver. It was fully loaded. Eight bullets. One shotgun shell. The pouch at her hip held another sixteen bullets, and three shells. She looked back up at the warehouse. She hoped to not have to reload. Would nine shots be enough? She hoped in a way not to fire even once, but she knew better than that.

"Beato," Chise whispered. The Japanese girl glanced at her, concern in her eyes.

The younger girl nodded.

"Are you certain that you are ready for this?"

"Yes."

Chise regarded her carefully.

"Chise," Beatrice continued, "I had a breakdown. I admit that. I'm ... well, I'm not okay. I don't know when I will be okay again, if ever. I have to do this, though."

"You are no coward, I will grant that. That said, you do not have to do this. You have been hurt, mind and body. I will not judge you if you hold back, and wait with Marilla at the hotel for this to end."

"No," she said simply.

"You may have to kill," Chise whispered.

"Again, you mean? If I have to," Beatrice replied.

"Ready?" It was one of the samurai that had been with them in London, when they entered Frankie's office. He held a Nambu Type B automatic pistol. A tanto hung at his hip.

Chise and Beatrice glanced in his direction. Chise said nothing.

"I am ready," Beatrice said with a confidence she didn't entirely feel.

The man nodded.

"Good."

He lifted a whistle to his lips, and gave one sharp, shrill blow.

A dozen grappling-lines shot out from the rooftop they were on, across the narrow roadway. Samurai and ninja, alike dressed in dark bodysuits without identifying marks, ran or slid across the lines.

Beatrice fired her own grappling gun. When it hit the wall across from her, she anchored the near end, and prepared to slide down to the warehouse roof. Chise tugged down her own mask, grabbed her shoulders tightly, and lightly kissed Beatrice's cheek. The younger girl blushed, and gave her an uncertain look.

Chise shrugged.

"For luck," she said simply.

...

Dorothy's expression was dark. She knelt beside Ange.

"Another night," she whispered, slipping a shell into her gun.

On Ange's other side, Princess Charlotte knelt. She wore the same dark leotard as Ange.

They glanced at Dorothy.

"Another warehouse," she muttered, loading another shell.

Ange raised her field-glasses, returning her gaze to the building in question.

"I want to shoot someone," Dorothy grumbled, loading the fifth and final shell.

Princess grinned widely, and glanced at Ange.

"I trust you do not mean me?" Ange deadpanned.

Dorothy glared in her direction.

"It's tempting," she replied, closing the gun.

Ange lowered her field glasses, and looked back at Dorothy. The older woman's expression changed to a grin.

"Well. if you ladies are ready?"

They heard the sound of a whistle somewhere in the distance. They saw on the opposite side of the warehouse a small army of dark-suited figures sliding down toward the same warehouse.

Princess grinned.

"It appears that the cavalry has arrived."

Dorothy laughed, and fired her grappling gun at the warehouse.

...

As per their plan, Beatrice and Chise remained together. There were skylights in the rooftop, and they moved toward the closest. Skylight after skylight were smashed as the Japanese warriors forced their way in. Likewise, Chise kicked in the glass near them. Beatrice attached another grappling line to the rooftop, and with Chise clinging tightly to her, the two leapt into the dark unknown below them.

They reached the floor, glass crunching under their feet. The floorplan had been burned into Beatrice's memory. She turned to her right, and Chise followed her, drawing her katana as she moved.

They had ignored stealth in favor of rapid and shocking entry. Zelda's goons were not easily thrown off, however. Beatrice and Chise heard a shot ring out somewhere, and the sound of battle began in the distance.

As they passed into an open space, three man ran into view, in front of them. They stopped, aware of another half-dozen around them. They wielded knives and staves.

Chise brandished her katana with a flourish. She narrowed her eyes, and glanced at the men around them. She switched to a one-handed sword grip, stretched her arm out, and gestured.

She saw the men in front of her hesitate, and take a step backward.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Beatrice pull the hammer back on her revolver. She raised it and took aim at one of the men, who she noticed also took an uncertain step backward.

It was a man to their left that moved first, charging forward and slicing upward with his knife. Chise shifted her sword to block. As she did a man to their right shouted and swung his stave. Chise ducked underneath the swing, and Beatrice barely danced out of the way. She turned with a squeal to see another man swing at her with a knife. It cut a neat slice down the baggy arm of her suit. She squeezed the trigger. The gun went off point-blank. There was a spray of blood, and the man collapsed with a ragged hole in his chest.

She barely had time to pull the hammer back again when a stave hit her shins with enough force to knock her off of her feet. Beatrice hit the ground with a shout, rolling and bringing the gun up to bear. She fired again, and the man with the stave jolted back, blood gurgling out of what was once his throat.

She scrambled away just as another man lunged for her with a knife. She pulled back the hammer and fired again. Her third bullet. It grazed the man's shoulder. He cried out, dropping his knife and scrambling away.

Beatrice panted for air, pulling herself up to her feet. She glanced around. She could hear the sound of metal striking metal in the distance, but couldn't see Chise. She took a deep, cleansing breath, and pulled the hammer back again. She moved cautiously but quickly in what she hoped was the right direction.

Sounds echoed in the vast cavernous space, even as piles of crates and metal shelves broke her line of sight. Gunshots. The sound of swords striking staves, and metal shelves. She found herself moving down a narrow passageway created by stacked goods. She swallowed again, and continued to move.

Just ahead, she saw the movement of a shadow. Just around a corner formed by a full shelf. She took a deep breath, and held it. Her thumb flipped the lever on the hammer.

Cautiously she took a step forward. She peeked around the corner.

There was a wavering cry, and a heavy whistling sound. She saw the flash of metal as it was swung through the air.

She jumped backward, releasing her breath with a gasp.

The man staggered into view, his eyes wide with fright. He spun, holding the cane in front of him, the heavy brass handle topmost as a makeshift club.

Beatrice couldn't help but shudder at the sight.

Frankie saw her. His look of fear vanished, replaced by a wide, feral grin.

"You," he whispered. "Oh, I am delighted that you survived. Oh yes, it is very delightful."

He took a step toward her. Beatrice took a step back, brandishing the gun.

Frankie giggled.

"I know you can't bring yourself to do that. I beat you, remember? I had you at my mercy."

He took a step toward her, and she couldn't quite stop a whimper from escaping her lips. She staggered back two steps.

"Put the gun down, little one. I won't hurt you if you do. Or do you want to feel my sting again?"

He grinned widely, lunging in her direction, swinging the cane.

Beatrice moved backward again, crying out as the brass handle of the cane whistled heavily inches from her face.

Beatrice pulled the trigger.

The hammer struck the shotgun shell.

It exploded loudly, throwing grapeshot out of the barrel, which rapidly spread out into a deadly volley of metal.

The gun jolted back more violently than she had expected, and her hands stung.

Frankie screamed, and dropped to the floor, his cane bouncing away from him with a metallic clanging sound.

His left knee was shredded.

Beatrice looked at the gruesome sight. At the blood and the torn flesh and bone and muscle.

She blinked. Her expression became cold. Dead-eyed. Had she a mirror, she would have recognized the expression: _Ange_.

She flipped the lever with her thumb, and took a step closer to him.

He shrieked, closing his eyes, and covering his face with his hands.

Beatrice pulled the hammer back with her thumb. She aimed the gun at Frankie, and held it steady with both hands.

"Beato!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chise turn the corner. Her katana had splotches of crimson.

"Miss Chise. I think I found Frankie," she replied evenly.

Frankie whined pathetically, weakly and slowly pulling himself away from them. His shattered leg dragged at a sickening angle, leaving behind a trail of red.

"What do you intend to do?"  
"Well. The thought of pulling the trigger had crossed my mind."

"I see," Chise replied, as though to a point in a theoretical discussion.

Beatrice glanced at Chise for a moment. Her eyes were wide, but glazed. Tears were leaking from them.

"I think they've made this too easy," she said, her voice wavering.

Chise regarded her evenly.

"Why do you say that?"

"All it would take is one simple muscular contraction. Just a simple squeeze. And just like that I would end two lives."

Chise blinked.

"Two?"

Beatrice shrugged, with a sigh. She placed her thumb on the hammer, lowering the barrel. She squeezed the trigger, but forced the hammer to come to rest, and not fire.

"I don't _want_ to kill. Not him, not anyone. Not unless I really have to."

"I am glad to hear it, Beato. I believe you would make a good samurai."

Beatrice giggled softly.

"I hate sharp, pointy things."

"I suppose that might prove a slight hindrance," Chise said in an amused voice.

Frankie mewled pathetically, and Beatrice glanced at him. Her expression hardened.

"You should have that leg looked at," she said calmly.

...

Dorothy, Ange, and Charlotte hit the rooftop, and glanced at the army of dark-clad Japanese warriors leaping down into the warehouse.

Dorothy shrugged.

"May not be anything left for us," she said.

"I would not mind that," Princess said with a gasp.

Ange glanced at her.

"You need not .…"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Charlotte."

She frowned, and rather than saying anything else, moved over to a shattered skylight.

Dorothy and Princess shared a glance.

"Charlotte or Ange?" Dorothy asked quietly as they moved to follow.

"Your Highness, if you please," Princess answered with a smirk. Dorothy laughed.

Ange had her C-ball in one hand, her revolver in the other. Dorothy placed a hand on Ange's shoulder. Princess wrapped an arm around Ange's waist. Her other hand held a light, but serviceable, revolver.

Ange took a step forward. The three plummeted down into the darkness. At the last minute, they were enveloped in green, and they set gently down onto the floor. Glass crunched under their feet.

A gunshot exploded behind them.

Princess winced, needing all of her willpower not to shriek. She felt the bullet fly directly at her back; felt the subtle pressure, as it was abruptly diverted by the physics-defying power of the C-ball. She started to turn, raising her revolver. Behind her, she saw a man in a bowler hat, eyes wide in utter terror. He saw Princess aim her gun at him. He shrieked, dropped his gun, and turned to run away at high speed.

The green glow ended, and Dorothy placed her hand on Princess' shoulder.

"Nice work."

She blinked, and glanced at Dorothy with a look of surprise.

At that moment, they were charged by half a dozen men wielding staves.

Princess heard Ange's gun fire. She saw Dorothy spin to face two men coming at her.

Her vision and attention narrowed down to a pair of men in front of her. They didn't hesitate, gun or no. Princess was briefly reminded of Chise as they came at her, swinging their staves like swords.

Cold terror gripped her, and she felt her throat seize up. She manged somehow to dance out of the way of both staves, which struck a metal shelf with a harsh metallic clanging.

She aimed her gun. Hesitated a moment. One man thrust his stave, grazing Princess on the side of her torso. She staggered back, winded, but managed to squeeze the trigger on her gun. One of the men cried out as a red stain spread across his shoulder.

The uninjured man surged forward with a growl, holding his stave at the far ends. The stave impacted Princess' torso, and she was born down to the ground with the weight and force of the charge. As he pressed down on her with all his weight, Princess fought fear and pain to raise her revolver. It was inches from his face, aiming up into the ceiling, when she squeezed the trigger, not entirely on purpose. The gun went off, and the man screamed in agony. He staggered back, gripping his ear with one hand.

Princess gasped loudly, gripping the stave in her free hand and using it to pull herself to her feet.

The man with the injured shoulder ran at her, a look of berserk rage on his face. Princess danced back, raising and firing her gun.

The bullet sailed harmlessly past his shoulder, and he swung his stave down brutally on her hand. Princess screamed in pain, and the gun fell out of her grip.

She forced panic down, and gripped the stave like a sword. Her eyes were wide, and she felt something dribbling down the right side of her face. Blood? Tears? Sweat? No time to think about that. Or anything else.

The man swung again, and Princess raised her stave. The impact, stave on stave, made her stagger back a step. She took a deep breath. She had never used a quarterstaff, and she doubted her training with foil would translate well to this. Still, as she looked at the man she realized she had no option: Win or die.

He screamed, and swung at her again. She pulled back just in time, a scream of her own escaping her lips.

She took a deep breath, and swung the stave at him. He effortlessly parried the attack. Princess winced. He counter-attacked, his swing beginning high, but ending sweeping down toward Princess' legs. She recognized the feint however, and blocked the blow. He snarled, and swung again, and again. Princess blocked each attack, her right hand throbbing painfully each time. She couldn't keep this up. Her hand would spasm and become unusable, and she knew she couldn't use the stave one-handed.

The man swung at her head with a shout. She ducked, and he was momentarily off-balance. It was the closest thing to a chance she had. Gripping the staff firmly, and shouting loudly, she thrust it at his chest with all of her strength. It hit him. She felt as much as heard the impact. Something gave way in the man, and he fell heavily to the ground.

Princess hissed in agony, dropping the stave and cradling her right hand. She wriggled her fingers experimentally, and groaned. It hurt, but she could move and feel them.

No time for that now. She knelt down and retrieved her gun. A quick check reassured her that it hadn't been damaged.

She stood, and glanced around. She heard the echoing sounds of gunshots and metallic clangs. She took a deep breath and started moving cautiously in the direction she had last seen the others.

...

Beatrice jolted in surprise. Chise glanced at her.

"That was Dorothy's gun," Beatrice said.

Chise frowned.

"I am certain hers is not the only gun to sound in such a manner."  
"No, it is! It's unique. Well, she has a couple but ... there's no question."

She turned and started running in the direction of the sound.

Chise scowled at the girl's back, and started to follow her.

A yell to her right interrupted her. She turned, raising her katana in time to block the knife-thrusts of two goons wearing dark suits and bowler hats, thin mustaches on their faces.

She pulled back a step, drawing one goon too far forward. She swung her katana. The man ducked just in time, his bowler hat falling in two pieces to the floor.

"Ah! I liked that hat!"

The other man ducked and jabbed his knife at Chise. She moved to one side, kicking out. Her foot hit his face, and he was thrown backward. The hatless goon ducked, and his left shoulder shifted in her direction. Chise blocked with her katana, not surprised when the knife flashed toward her right side. The man pressed forward, grabbing toward Chise's body with his free hand. Her katana grip shifted, and her now-free hand grabbed his wrist. She pulled his arm down in a savage motion, just as she thrust her knee up. There was a crunching snap. His forearm was pulled down over Chise's knee, even as his upper arm was wrenched upward by the force of the blow.

He screamed, and collapsed to the floor, his forearm laying at an impossible angle.

"Beato!"

She growled at the now-prone thugs, and took off running in what she hoped was the right direction.

...

Dorothy fired her shotgun, and a pair of thugs collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. She glanced around. The sound of battle rang on all sides, the dim light throwing odd, shifting shadows on the floor and walls. It was a poor environment for a fight. Not that there were any good ones. She took a deep breath, and turned in the direction of shouting. She wanted to find the others, even if the others were Horikawa's ninja. She wasn't afraid, but she didn't particularly like being by herself in situations like these.

She heard footsteps to her left. She was being charged. She spun, raising her shotgun. Her trigger finger poised in position to fire. And she stopped. Her eyes went wide.

She saw a petite girl in a black bodysuit, similar to Chise's but with tighter pants and full sleeves. A mask covered her nose and mouth, and her orange-brown hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail. She wielded a LeMat revolver with both hands. The gun looked just a touch too large for her.

Dorothy lowered her shotgun, and the girl came to a skidding stop.

"Beato?"

The girl switched her revolver grip to one hand, and pulled the mask down from her face.

"Hey, Doro," Beatrice said in a jarringly casual, if tired, voice.

Dorothy took a very deep breath, and closed the distance between them. She wrapped one arm around Beatrice's body, and the younger girl wrapped her free arm around Dorothy's waist.

"Christ I missed you," Dorothy whispered.

"Missed you too," Beatrice replied.

They held each other like that for a long moment. Longer than they should have, perhaps.

"Well. I see that you have found one another."

It was Princess' voice. Both looked up to her, smiling.

"Nice to see you, Your Highness," Beatrice said, beaming.

The Princess smiled widely.

"You owe me several hugs. You may begin paying them once this has ended," the Princess said in a regal voice. Beatrice giggled.

She turned her attention back to Dorothy, resting her head against the older girl's chest.

Longer than they should have.

"Look out!" Princess shouted.

Dorothy and Beatrice barely had time to pull apart.

In the blink of an eye, events very nearly spiraled out of control.

Zelda turned the corner. She raised her revolver, aiming it at the back of Beatrice's head. She prepared to squeeze the trigger, even as Dorothy and Beatrice scrambled to move to one side, and to ready their own guns.

There was the sharp retort of a gunshot. There was a spray of blood, and a cry of frustrated agony.

And Zelda staggered back, dropping her revolver as the bullet Princess fired grazed her wrist.

Zelda, grimacing, somehow ignored the pain. She dove for her revolver, just barely missing a bullet fired from Beatrice's gun as she raised it. Zelda managed to grab her gun in her still-uninjured hand, and rolled away as grapeshot from Dorothy's gun peppered the floor, throwing up a cloud of concrete dust.

Zelda fired, missing Princess' shoulder by inches.

Princess, off-balance from avoiding the shot, was knocked to the floor as Zelda kicked a leg out from under her.

Zelda's eyes went satisfyingly wide with fear, as she was forced abruptly to scramble out of the way of another blast from Dorothy's shotgun.

Zelda hissed in pain as a pair of grapeshot pellets grazed her leg.

Still, she managed to scramble to her feet a tick faster than Princess, and before the others could react. Her revolver aimed at Princess' forehead. The blonde scowled, and without hesitation raised her own gun at Zelda.

"Zelda."

"Charlotte!" the Princess called out.

Dark amusement lit Zelda's eyes. She turned, training her gun on Ange as she stepped around the corner. She backed away from Princess. Ange had the barrel of her gun aimed at the tuft of hair hanging down between Zelda's eyes.

"You think that I'm threatened? That I'll lay down my revolver just because you aim yours at me? I am already dead."

Dorothy and Beatrice glanced at each other. They kept their guns trained on Zelda, and Princess managed to find her feet.

"Yes. Likewise, I too am dead already, so your gun holds no threat to me," Ange replied evenly.

A grin slowly crept across Zelda's face.

"Well then. Shall we have one last dance, before the embalmer has his way with our bodies?"

A green aura surrounded Zelda, and she kicked up off the ground.

Ange, likewise, glowed green and flew off.

Dorothy, Beatrice and the Princess all shouted, running to follow them as far as they could. They were joined by Chise and one samurai.

They ran toward the main door of the warehouse. The door abruptly opened, and dozens of gendarmes, armed with rifles, charged into the building.

"Halt! You are under arrest. Place your weapons down on the ground."

"So much for the police looking the other way," Beatrice muttered bitterly.

Princess was careful to allow her gun to drop, then she raised her hands slowly above her head. Her friends behind her followed suit. Princess then slowly walked forward.

"Officers? We do not intend to resist you." She spoke in flawless French.

One of the gendarmes, armed with a revolver and wearing a ranking officer's uniform, stepped forward. He frowned.

"I know you. Or at least, I recognize you."

The Princess smiled.

"Ah. If you do, then you will realize why I do not pose a threat to you."

He chuckled, and shook his head. He addressed his men: "Search the warehouse. Arrest those who resist, kill only if necessary."

The gendarmes spread out, going through the warehouse. The surviving samurai and ninja in Horikawa's service gradually made their way out to the open space in front of the door, all with raised hands and looks that ranged from relief to resentment. Zelda's surviving thugs were led away in handcuffs.

Frankie was carried out on a stretcher, a tourniquet tied to his leg, just above his shattered knee. He was whimpering and mumbling something that no one particularly tried to hear.

"Officer?"

"Duval, mademoiselle."

"Officer Duval. Our friend ... how to explain it?"

"Flew out the warehouse skylight?" Duval suggested, with a scowl.

"Um. Yes."

He nodded, with a huff of exasperation.

"Damn English, damn Cavorite, damn ... _damn_! Go. I will not place you, of all people, under arrest, and God help both our countries if the Press see you here!"

"Ah, yes. You may have a point. Thank you, Monsieur Duval."

She picked up her gun. She turned to the others.

"We're leaving," she said in English. "We should try to find Ange."

Beatrice and Dorothy, who had understood the conversation, shared a glance and picked up their guns.

Chise, who had not, watched the armed military policemen warily, as she retrieved her katana.

...

Zelda soared up into the night sky. A cold wind blew, but adrenaline and Cavorite radiation masked it. She glanced over her shoulder.

She laughed.

"I thought you were the expert with the C-ball?"

Ange ignored her taunt. She raised her revolver, aiming carefully at Zelda.

Zelda flipped around, firing her own revolver rapidly. Ange adjusted her trajectory, and the bullet soared past. She fired her own shot, subtly adjusting the C-ball's strength. The bullet soared in an impossible arc, but Zelda adjusted her own C-ball. The bullet curved away from her, flying off into the night.

Zelda laughed again, and the green glow around her body vanished. She started to drop rapidly. Ange kicked against the air, and soared down after her. She aimed her revolver and fired again.

Zelda fell to within a few meters of a rooftop, before adjusting her C-ball. Her velocity was inverted, and she shot up into the sky. Ange's bullet hit the roof of a building. Zelda fired again, her bullet racing up through the air. Ange rolled out of the way, only hearing the bullet seconds after it flew past.

Ange adjusted her flight, charging directly up at Zelda. Zelda deactivated her C-ball, gravity again taking hold of her body. Ange and Zelda collided mid-air. Both girls had the wind knocked out of them, and only the Cavorite radiation from Ange's C-ball held them in the air.

Zelda recovered a faction of a second before Ange, and she placed the barrel of her revolver against Ange's temple.

Ange hit Zelda's forearm with the hand holding the C-ball. Zelda snarled. Ange brought her own gun up, but Zelda swatted it to one side.

Ange abruptly shut off her C-ball, but Zelda wrapped a leg around Ange's waist. They plummeted down. Zelda drove her knee up toward Ange's body, and Ange blocked the blow with her thigh. She hissed in pain, and both girls glowed green again.

Zelda again tried to raise her gun. Ange pushed her arm away, trying to maneuver the barrel of her gun against Zelda's side. She pulled the trigger just as Zelda's elbow hit the gun. The top of the revolver slid back into Zelda's arm with the force of the shot, and Zelda grimaced. She again lashed out with her knee, but Ange's leg was positioned to force the blow to slide up along her body rather than impact it.

...

Dorothy, Beatrice, Princess, and Chise managed to find themselves on the banks of the Seine. Looking up into the night sky, they saw Ange and Zelda in mid-air, their legs interlocked, each trying to maneuver their gun into a position where they could discharge it into the other's body. They fell, stopped, darted up, and to one side and the other.

"That looks disturbingly like sex," Dorothy muttered.

"Doro!" Beatrice gasped in shock.

Princess and Chise glared at Dorothy, who shrugged.

"It kinda does," she said defensively.

...

Zelda grit her teeth, and drew back slightly. Their legs were tightly intertwined, and Ange clenched her thigh muscles in an effort to prevent Zelda from separating from her. Rather than trying, Zelda abruptly threw herself back into Ange's body. Her forehead hit Ange's cheek, and Ange cried out in pain. Zelda followed the attack up by slamming down on her gun hand with her C-ball. The blow was sharp enough to cause Ange's fingers to loosen, and her revolver dropped out of the sky.

Zelda swung the C-ball toward Ange's face, but she was able to block the blow. Her now-empty right hand gripped Zelda's upper arm. She growled and squeezed as hard as she could.

Zelda hissed, and used every ounce of strength that she could to force her revolver up against Ange's chest.

She pulled the trigger.

Ange braced for pain that she never felt. Zelda's eyes widened, and she glanced down at her gun in surprise. Distracted, she was unable to block or avoid Ange's blow: her C-ball hit Zelda's head hard enough that something cracked. Sadly, from Ange's perspective, it was not Zelda's skull. Her C-ball sputtered, green sparks flew out, and with a sharp snapping sound, the device's Cavorite capsule shattered.

Zelda blinked, and shook her head. Ange followed this up by releasing Zelda's forearm, clenching her hand into a fist, and driving it up into Zelda's chin.

Zelda cried out in pain and frustration. She let go of her useless gun, and lashed out, gripping Ange's throat.

Ange released her ruined C-ball, and grabbed Zelda's arm with both hands. Squeezing, pulling, trying desperately with all her strength to loosen Zelda's iron grip around her windpipe. She shuddered. Her lungs burned. Her throat felt like it would pop.

A triumphant look crossed Zelda's face.

"Die," she hissed.

Desperately, Ange lashed out with her right hand. Her palm hit Zelda's nose, and there was a distinct cracking sound.

Zelda screamed and released her grip on Ange, as blood gushed down the front of her face.

Ange gasped for breath, but couldn't afford to let up. She drove her palm into Zelda's face a second time, and then a third. Before she could recover, Ange gripped Zelda's C-ball in both hands. She deactivated it, and wrenched it out of Zelda's hands.

They were falling down toward the river. Zelda sputtered, clawing desperately for the C-ball.

Ange took a deep breath, and once more lashed out, her fist driving hard into Zelda's sternum. Zelda's body jolted once, her eyes went wide, and Ange felt her go limp. She hurriedly untangled her legs from Zelda's and kicked her away.

...

Princess watched in horror as two bodies careened down toward certain doom. They passed behind a building, and there was a spine-shattering splash.

"Charlotte!"

Princess took off running, toward the building on the river-bank.

"Wait, Princess!"

Beatrice took off after her, followed shortly by Chise and Dorothy.

A very surprised-looking man stood on the prow of a ferry-boat, tied up at a dock. He was looking at a point in the river where heavy ripples stretched out in a circular pattern.

"Did you see?" Princess asked breathlessly, running up alongside the ferry.

The man turned to her with wide, terrified eyes. He didn't say anything.

After a moment, there was a faint green glow underneath the water.

Beatrice, panting, watched at the Princess' side as the glow brightened, and grew larger.

A figure rocketed up out of the water in a shallow arc, landing hard on the stern of the ferryboat.

The figure gasped, and managed to push herself up. The C-ball beside her fizzled, sputtered, and stopped glowing with a final sounding _pop_!

"Charlotte!"

Princess scrambled over to the boat.

The Spy rolled onto her back, with a shout of agony, and closed her eyes.

The man moved quickly over to her, kneeling down beside Ange.

Her eyes opened, and she glowered at the man. He raised his hands, stood, and backed away.

Princess was at Ange's side in the next moment. She leaned down over her.

"Charlotte?"

The Spy wrapped her arms around the Princess. The Princess cried out in surprise, as she was pulled off-balance, landing on the Spy. The Spy's embrace didn't loosen. They lay there.

Beatrice, Dorothy, and Chise shared an uncertain look, then walked over to the side of the boat.

And they heard laughter.

"Ummm. Ange? Charlotte?" It was Beatrice.

Both girls looked up.

The Spy was battered. She had a bruised cheek and slowly-fading finger-marks on her throat.

The Princess was bleeding from a cut over her right eye. Her right hand was bruised. Their black leotards had rips and tears, and much of the ruffly fluff was missing from Ange's.

And both wore huge, fatigued, pained grins.


	18. Reunion

Five weary young women found their way back to a hotel in central Paris.

Despite bruises, bandaged hands, and hastily-stitched cuts, they wore smiles.

They chatted about nothing in particular. Ange and Charlotte held hands and Beatrice had an arm around Dorothy's waist. Chise, though alone, wore a smile as large as the others. Larger perhaps. She had someone to come home to.

"So," Dorothy was saying, "we all really gotta sit down and talk about things. Like, who the hell we really are."

"Yes, Daisy," Beatrice said in a teasing voice. Dorothy glowered at her.

Ange and Charlotte shared a look.

"It is complicated," Ange said.

"Quite," Charlotte agreed.

"Can it be so complicated to explain?" Chise asked. "You are Ange and Charlotte, are you not?"

They entered the lobby of the hotel, and began working their way toward the front desk.

"All I'm saying," Dorothy continued, "is I wanna know when I say ...."

Two men stepped in front of their paths. They wore dark brown suits and bowler hats. Neither looked especially friendly.

Dorothy sighed loudly, and Ange frowned.

"Well. And what is the meaning of this?" Princess asked. "We are tourists returning to our rooms after a long day walking about Paris."

They said nothing, but gestured toward the lounge. The five exchanged looks.

"Alright," Princess said in a quiet tone, with just an edge of displeasure. "We'll play along."

They turned and moved into the lounge, their positive mood gone. The lounge was empty except for one man sitting cross-legged at a table, intently reading a copy of the Times of London.

"Shall we sit, then?" Beatrice asked, glancing at the men.

"If you please," the seated man replied, folding his newspaper and setting it on the table beside him.

Five pairs of eyes snapped to him.

"L," Dorothy hissed, her eyes narrowing.

L folded his hands into his lap, and glanced between the five with a serene look.

"Alright. We'll sit, right?" The others glanced at Beatrice, and nodded. When everyone was seated, L stood. The two men stepped outside the lounge, closing the door.

"Mistakes were made," L said.

Ange and Dorothy looked at each other.

"Mistakes?" Dorothy growled.

He turned to her.

"Mistakes. A man is able only to act on the information he is given, and the intuition he carries into a situation."

"You did not trust us," Chise said evenly.

"Trust is a rare commodity in our profession."

He frowned and paced across the room.

"The Commonwealth stands on the verge of civil war. One faction desires that we act directly. You have twice foiled this faction's plans."

"The General," Ange said.

"Yes. He is the face of the Direct Action faction, at least that with which you are familiar. We do not know, yet, if he is at the top of the faction."

"What happens now?" Dorothy asked.

"You are all brought back in from the cold. The Principal Team is reinstated. You'll be given specifics in due time. To speak in broad terms, the Direct Action faction must be crippled, if not eliminated. And we must strike back against the SSB."

"Is this a secure location?" Ange asked in a quiet voice.

L nodded in her direction.

"Yes."

"Then I request permission to speak freely."

L frowned, and narrowed his eyes.

"Proceed."

"We were attacked on many levels. We found ourselves set upon by both the Kingdom and the Commonwealth."

"And a greedy bastard," Beatrice added in a bitter tone.

Dorothy put an arm over her shoulder, and snuggled her tightly.

"And a greedy bastard," Ange agreed. "What assurances do we have that there will not be a repeat of this debacle?"

"None. None beyond what you yourselves can create."

Ange and Charlotte shared a look.

"Things will get bloody," Charlotte whispered. Beatrice looked at her with wide eyes.

"Yes," L nodded. "They will be very bloody indeed."

He glanced at Dorothy and Ange.

"You are returning to school for the term?"

"What's left of it," Dorothy said.

L nodded.

"Good. There are ... loose ends at Queen's Mayfair Academy. Tie them up first. Then this summer, Agents A and D will need to do a spot of housecleaning."

"Yes sir," Ange said.

"Agent B?"

"Ahh! Yes?" Beatrice stammered.

"I'll want a word with you, in private, once we return to Albion."

She shifted uncertainly.

"Um. Alright, sir."

Dorothy glanced at L curiously, but the man had already turned to pace the other direction. She looked at Beatrice with a shrug.

"Agent C?"

"Yes," Chise replied.

"Lord Horikawa has been in touch with us."

"Yes sir."

"I am told that he has left a gift for you in your room."

She frowned in confusion.

"A ... gift, sir?"

L nodded.

"I understand that it is a perishable item. It might be best for you to return to your room. Immediately, perhaps?"

Chise glanced at the others. Her frown deepened, but she rose, and bowed respectfully at L.

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

She turned and left.

L turned to the others after a moment.

"C is a tenuous ally."

Beatrice frowned, but said nothing.

"She has been nothing but loyal to us. She is strong and courageous and dependable," Ange said.

"And if Japan's interests conflict with the Commonwealth's she will turn against you," L replied with a frown.

"I don't believe this," Dorothy muttered.

"Something to say, Agent D?"

Beatrice placed her hand on Dorothy's forearm, and shook her head.

Dorothy frowned, her expression very dark.

"I get that she'll follow her country. I get that she obeys Horikawa. I know that if there is conflict she'll stop being our ally. But God dammit L, she is our _friend_."

L sighed.

"Don't let that friendship blind you. I'm not saying it will happen, but if it does I do not want your misplaced loyalties to prevent you from doing what is right. Keep your priorities on the greater good."

"Then that goes doubly for me," Charlotte muttered.

L turned to her.

"Perhaps," he said simply.

Charlotte and L maintained eye contact. Their expressions were even. Neither one moved or flinched for a long, tense moment. Ange and Dorothy shared a glance.

And then L chuckled, and turned away.

"You're valuable to us."

"And she is not?"

L didn't respond, leading Princess to scowl, and glance at Ange.

"Well. Moving on. I will register modest disapproval at your actions and decisions in this affair."

Beatrice's cheeks turned red and she squirmed. Dorothy's expression turned yet another shade darker. Ange and Charlotte remained as impassive as they could.

"C was given explicit permission to return to London. In contrast ...."

"Sir," Beatrice said quietly, "I couldn't just let her come back alone. I mean, I understood the risks."

"B, while I appreciate your perspective, I should remind you that you were instructed to stay by the Princess' side. Had you done so, many events would have transpired in a very different way."

Dorothy took a very deep breath, and managed to control her impulse to shout.

"Still," L sighed, "In the end you've eliminated a major threat to the Commonwealth, so I am not upset. Return to the Academy, and you'll receive further instructions."

There was a chorus of "Yes sirs" and the four young women rose to retire for the evening.

...

Chise fit her key into the lock, turned the knob and tugged the door open.

The sight that met her eyes made her heart skip a beat. Her eyes bulged out, her mouth hanging open.

Marilla knelt upon the bed. She wore a dark blue kimono, lightly embroidered with silver thread at the hem. Around her waist was a wide black obi with silver trim. Her hair was elaborately braided and decorated with fresh flowers. Her face was lightly powdered, giving her a pale though still natural look. Her lips were painted bright red. She wore red eyeshadow on her lower eyelids and out from the outer edges of her eyes. Her gaze was downcast, though a thin smile lit her face.

" _Okaeri,_ Chise."

Chise swallowed once, and managed somehow to push the door closed. She mumbled something that might have been _Tadaima._

Marilla raised her eyes tentatively. She saw Chise's face lit with a huge smile, and couldn't fully suppress a soft laugh.

"You are ... stunning," Chise whispered.

Marilla's cheeks reddened, visible through the makeup, and she looked down again.

"I ... Lord Horikawa lent me his maidservent, to ... well, help me."

Chise walked over to the bed, placing her hands on Marilla's cheeks. The older girl looked up, meeting Chise's gaze. Chise found her own cheeks and ears begin to turn red.

She forced that aside. Leaning in close, she pressed her lips to Marilla's. The kiss lingered, deepening. Chise's hands moved down to Marilla's shoulders, slipping underneath the cloth of her kimono. Easing it aside.

The kiss broke. Marilla's head lulled back.

"Chise," she breathed.

The Japanese girl's lips trailed down her chin, and her throat. Her hands continued to push the kimono away from Marilla's skin. Marilla's eyes fluttered closed, her hands running through Chise's hair as her lips trailed down....

...

Beatrice lay on the bed, on her back, naked. Her bruises were fading. Her cheek was healed, the scratch barely noticeable. The bullet wound looked better, but the girl had the nagging feeling the scar would never vanish entirely.

She had the same sense about other scars. Scars of a less physical kind.

Beside her, Dorothy sobbed softly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, naked also, she looked at Beatrice. Her fingertips glided gently across the younger girl's body. She sniffled.

"You're never allowed to leave my sight again," she whispered bitterly.

Beatrice couldn't help but giggle.

"I'm okay though. I am now, any way."

Dorothy leaned down, and pressed her lips lightly against Beatrice's belly.

"I just ... it breaks my heart. Seeing you ... I mean ... your bruises hurt me."

Beatrice sighed softly. Dorothy shifted to kiss the younger girl's lips. It was quick, tender. Dorothy followed it with quick fluttery kisses to Beatrice's cheeks.

"Missed you so much," she whispered.

"Missed you."

Dorothy kissed Beatrice's lips again.

"I blame myself. Shouldn't have let you go. Not alone."

"Doro," Beatrice whispered. Their lips met again. Longer this time.

"We've just ... I mean, lost so much. You know? Zelda," Dorothy shuddered at the name. "She knew how to hurt us."

"We got her."

Dorothy nodded.

"And we all survived. All got back together." Beatrice added. "That's more important."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

They kissed again.

...

Ange sat on the bed, her long blonde hair cascading down bare shoulders. She wore sheer silks and scandalously small nickers and luxuriant stockings. But, she could only look with sad eyes at the girl beside her.

Charlotte pouted, her lips quivering. She shifted her weight, and wasn't able to meet Ange's gaze.

"Charlotte," Ange said quietly.

The Spy sniffled.

Princess sighed, and gently cupped Charlotte's chin. She raised her face, and the Spy, reluctantly, looked into the Princess' eyes.

"Charlotte," she repeated. "it is as much my fault as yours."

The Spy swallowed, and shrugged.

"Shouldn't have been alone," she managed, between tears.

"No, I suppose not. Still, it did happen. We can not undo that fact."

Charlotte nodded, and nuzzled her cheek against Ange's palm.

"Zelda is dead," Ange continued, "and I suspect my dear family would not desire the details of this incident to be known to the public, even if they find out."

Charlotte blinked, and nodded again.

"And, we are together. That is what is most important."

"Yes," the Spy said.

Charlotte leaned in close, prompting a thin smile from Ange, and she meet her half-way. Their lips pressed together in a soft and tender kiss.

"Now," the Princess whispered as the kiss broke, "I do hope that I have not risked the ruination of a very expensive pair of stockings for no good reason."

The Spy couldn't help but laugh.

"Shall we find a good reason to ruin them instead?" The Princess asked with a smirk. The Spy nodded eagerly.

...

Beatrice's head rested in Dorothy's lap. The older girl idly played with her hair. Beatrice sighed softly.

"Sweet?"

"I'm here."

"Yeah. Stay here."

"I will. Doro. I love you."

"I love you too."

"I ... I broke rules you know."

"You didn't break rule one. That's the most important one."

Beatrice nodded.

"Almost did though."

"But you didn't. And don't go on about the scar. You're beautiful no matter what."

"Broke rule two."

"How?"

"When I was alone in London, a guy gave me a flask of gin."

"Doesn't count."

"But he left. And I drank it anyway."

"He thought he was saving your life, yeah?"

She shrugged.

"Guess so."

"Doesn't count."

"I broke rule three."

"I hope not with that same guy."

If it was a joke, Beatrice didn't laugh.

"He brought a girl. She took me in. She helped me. Comforted me."

"Okay."

"Kissed me."

"Did you kiss her back?"

"Not ... really."

"Did you do anything else with her?"

Beatrice shivered.

"No. But part of me wanted to. Wanted to kiss, and more. Really strongly wanted to."

"But you didn't."

"No. Because I didn't want to hurt you."

"So. Doesn't count."

"Part of me ... I can't explain it. I think that I ...."

"What? You want a second exception to that rule?"

"I ... I don't know. I really don't. But ... it scares me. If another girl can make me feel like ...."

"No buts. You can look. You can think. Imagine. Want. Don't touch and we're good."

Beatrice nodded.

"Look, I just want us to be honest, okay? If this girl really does get you going ... maybe we can work something out," Dorothy said with a faintly bitter laugh. "Besides, I'm not really one to talk. I've done plenty of things with other people."

"On the job," Beatrice whispered softly.

"On the job. But I am ... attracted to people. Not just girls, you know?"

Beatrice sighed.

"I guess I know that. I don't know if I fully understand it."

"Well, if it makes any difference, I don't understand how you can love both Charlotte and me."

"Does that bother you?"

"Kinda. I mean, I don't mind in a way. I can understand being attracted to her. Hell, I am. She's a very nicely built young woman."

Beatrice giggled softly at this.

"But _loving_ her? And me? Having romantic feelings, and not just attraction? I don't get that."

"So ... if I had an affair, and didn't love the girl ...."

Dorothy laughed.

"Don't do that, Sweet. Not an _affair_ , because that sounds sleazy. I mean," she paused with a sigh. "I mean, if you want someone else too, we will work something out."

"This is most definitely not how I pictured romance."

Dorothy laughed, again.

"Me either, Sweet."

"I love you, Dorothy."

"I love you too, Beatrice. We'll get through this. Just stay with me, okay?"

"Of course I will, forever."

...

The Spy lay on her side, her eyes closed. The Princess held her lightly from behind, her soft, slender fingers gently caressing her belly. The Spy sighed softly.

"Will I lose you to the nation, Charlotte?" she asked in a whisper.

The Princess gasped in surprise, her hand freezing in place over Ange's body.

"You call me by that name?"

The Spy turned, pulling away slightly. Her hands rested on the Princess' shoulders, her eyes locking their gaze into the Princess'.

"You're Charlotte to the world, whatever you are to me. How can I stand against the world in this?"  
Princess sighed.

"You're afraid?"

"Yes," she admitted softly. "I remember wanting to change the world, before the world changed on its own, so I don't oppose what you plan. Even so, how can I stay at your side when you become such an important person?"

Princess leaned in close, softly kissing the spy's forehead.

"We will find a way."

"You'll be pressured to marry. To have an heir."

"We will find a way, Charlotte," the Princess repeated, frowning.

The Spy sighed.

"I am Ange."

"Are we to undo a decade of tradition?"

"What choice do we have?"

"This is not like you, Charlotte. Have you not already faced down the entire world? Stole me away to Casablanca? Went through hell and faced so may demons, to rescue me?"

"You rescued yourself."

Princess sighed again.

"Please Charlotte. Let us face one thing at a time."

"We have to be ready to face more than that. "

Princess' expression darkened.

"While you are right, dearest Ange, I should note that if one burns a bridge down before crossing it, then one is trapped upon the wrong shore. Yes, you are right. Things will be painful, and bloody. I do not know what will happen. I can see several possible futures: one ends with me on the throne, a second with me on the gallows."

The Spy winced.

"Neither future is terribly likely, however. And certainly, the best possible outcome will not happen without us risking the worst."

"Charlotte," the Spy whispered, "I waited ten years. I schemed and plotted to find you again. I was selfish, and I never once considered what you might want. And then, we met again and you broke all that down. You called them walls around my heart. I am afraid of being so badly hurt that I must retreat behind walls again."

"Ange, I must make you promise me one thing."

"Anything!"

"No, hear me before you say that."

The Spy shrugged.

"If the worst should happen, I beg of you to take that parachute."

The Spy's eyes went wide.

"I cannot live as Ange without you as Charlotte," she said in a trembling voice.

The Princess sighed.

"Ange, please? I do not know if I will live or die. I do not know if I shall be forced to marry for political gain. I do. Not. Know. I want to know at least one thing in my life, and that is that you will be Ange, regardless."

The Spy's eyes closed.

"I ... promise. I will ... I'll be Ange, no matter what."

The Princess lightly pressed her lips to the Spy's,

"I love you, Ange le Carré."

The Spy shivered.

"I love you, Charlotte. My Queen."

...

The sun had long since set. Marilla's kimono and obi lay in a pile with Chise's less formal clothing. A pillow teetered atop, as did most of a blanket. The bedsheets dribbled carelessly off the bed to pool on either side.

The only sound was a very soft, fragile crying.

Chise clung tightly to Marilla's body. Her face buried between her breasts. Her legs bent, draped across Marilla's. Chise trembled with each sobbing breath.

Marilla's hands softly circled down her bare back, and through her dark black hair. Soothing, holding the girl as she shuddered.

"Chise?"

The Japanese girl sniffled.

"Chise?"

She looked up. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Her eyes could barely focus.

"Are you okay?"

Chise nodded once.

"Was it more intense than you were expecting?"

Chise nodded again. She cleared her throat.

"I," she began, her voice cracking, "I was not prepared. Not to feel so weak. To feel ... to feel control slip to another so easily."

Marilla smiled, and kissed Chise's forehead softly.

"It's okay. You're allowed to be weak around me."

Chise sniffled again, and nodded.

"I felt the same, you know," Marilla whispered, wiping Chise's cheeks.

Her eyes regained some focus.

"I ... I know. I could feel it."

Marilla kissed Chise's forehead a second time.

"So there's no shame."

"I have surrendered myself to you, Marilla. I am yours. You may do with me as you will."

"As I have to you, Chise."

They shifted. Their lips met. Marilla deepened the kiss, and Chise felt herself again swept under the charm of the older, English girl.

The kiss broke, and both smiled.

"Oh," Marilla said, suddenly seeming to realize something. "Does ... does this mean I'm the wife of a samurai?"

Chise's eyes went wide, and she grinned.

"Yes!" She said enthusiastically.

Marilla giggled softly.

"I love you, Chise Todo."

"And I you ... Marilla Todo."

...

Dorothy sat at the desk in their room, a thin robe over her shoulders. The room's main door opened, and Beatrice padded in, wearing a terrycloth robe and carrying a towel. Her hair was damp and hung free to her shoulders.

"Nice bath?" Dorothy asked absently.

"It was a bath," she replied quietly. She closed and locked the door, and walked over to Dorothy's side.

Beatrice's gun was on the desk, open. Bullets and shotgun shells lay beside it. Dorothy was examining everything closely.

"LeMat, pinfire. .42 caliber bullets, 20 gauge shotgun barrel. Made in Liege, Wallonia. Pretty sweet gun you have here, Beato."

"Well ... I kinda borrowed it."

"That so?"

Beatrice shrugged, and placed her hand on Dorothy's shoulder. The older girl grinned at her and put an arm around her waist.

"You want attention?"

Beatrice shrugged again.

"It's okay. You're having fun."

Dorothy laughed.

"It's just very rare to see this kinda gun is all. Now, pinfire frankly is bad. Slow to load the damn things, and unlike a proper modern bullet, there's a chance it can go off it the pin is jostled just right. You like this gun?"  
Beatrice couldn't help but smirk.

"I had some good luck with it, yeah."

"I saw what was left of Frankie's leg. I guess that's you?"

"It wasn't you, and no one else had a shotgun."

Dorothy nodded.

"Anyway, they still make these in New Orleans for the Texas army, with proper modern bullets. Kinda pricey, but I can help you get a pair imported."

Beatrice slipped her arm around Dorothy's neck, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"We'll see. I don't really care about that right now."

"Yeah, breakfast's more important."

"Breakfast?" Beatrice asked, grinning. She slipped onto Dorothy's lap, straddling her legs. "Never said anything about breakfast."

...

Ange looked in the mirror in their room. She ran her fingers through her long, blonde hair with a smile. She wore an off-white knee-length dress with long sleeves. Matching gloves and a broad-brimmed hat sat on the table top in front of the mirror.

Charlotte walked up behind her with a grin, her own long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. She was dressed identically, and held her gloves and hat in one hand.

"Princess, you look stunning."

The girls turned to face one another. Absently Charlotte dropped her gloves and hat to the bed beside them.

"As do you, Princess."

They grinned, and wrapped their arms around one another. They leaned in close, pressing their lips together. After a moment, the kiss broke, and Charlotte giggled softly.

"I wonder, will anyone be able to tell us apart today?"

Ange's grin widened.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Now, the real question that I have, darling, is should we maintain this facade through the day, or reveal who is who before boarding the train for London?"

Charlotte shook her head.

"I don't know that we can risk being seen like this by the border guards."

Ange sighed, and shrugged.

"I suppose not. Well, we can still have a little fun before then."

Charlotte started to lean in again, then stopped.

"Hm. I wonder, is this love or narcissism?"

"Princess, I am offended. Do you believe that I am only pursuing you because you look like me?"

"It is something that I have considered, Princess. Is it not a little strange to fall in love with a girl that wears your face?"

Ange frowned.

"I pray you are not serious."

Charlotte grinned, and shook her head.

"Of course not. I can tell that you are not me. I can see the differences quite clearly."

Ange's expression lightened.

"As can I, Princess."

Charlotte closed the distance between them, for another quick kiss.

"Well," she said as it broke, "shall we make things interesting? Say, a fiver if we go the day without anyone knowing which of us is which?"

"A fiver? Is the Royal Family so cheap that you can't afford a proper wager?"

"Well, we have fallen on hard times. Long gone are the days when we could casually wager a county on such frivolities."

"Hm. Countess Ange? I believe that I like the sound of that."

Charlotte smirked. "Get me on the throne and I'll secure a position for you that would make Count seem lowly."

"I can think of quite a few positions I'll want to secure from you once you're on the throne."

"Why Charlotte, you naughty girl! That is no way for the future Queen of Albion to speak."

Ange laughed.

...

Sunlight streamed into their room. Chise mumbled something, and her eyes fluttered open. She was on her side, and felt very warm and safe. Marilla was pressed up close behind her, her hips conforming to Chise's rear. Her arms wrapped around Chise's body, and her face was nuzzled into Chise's hair.

She heard Marilla mutter something.

"Marilla?"

"Mornin'. " Marilla slurred in response.

Chise smiled.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Better than ever," she whispered.

"I am glad."

Marilla slowly, reluctantly, untangled herself from Chise, and sat up. Chise rolled onto her back, and looked up at Marilla.

"Even now, upon first awakening, you are beautiful."

Marilla blushed.

"And you say you don't understand romance."

Chise grinned.

...

"Seriously, guys?"

Dorothy frowned heavily as Charlotte and ... Charlotte arrived in the front lobby of the hotel.

Dorothy wore her green driving-dress and flat-cap. Beatrice wore a dark blue dress and bonnet.

Beatrice had to giggle softly.

"You can't tell them apart?" she asked Dorothy with a grin.

"You can?" The older girl asked skeptically.

"Uh huh. But I am not telling you how, or who is who."

The two Charlottes shared a glance, and a grin. They walked over to Beatrice.

"Beato, are you sure you know which one of us is which?"

"You just might be surprised."

The younger girl blinked, and glanced between the two.

"I mean ... sure. I ... know. But ... I'm not gonna spoil it! The others will just have to guess."

Charlotte and Charlotte grinned.

"If you ...."

"... say so, Beato."

Chise and Marilla appeared next. Chise wore a black dress with oversized sleeves and red trim, and Marilla a purple dress with white lace at the wrists and neck. Both, slightly out of character, wore wide-brimmed hats in colors matching their dresses, and in style similar to what the Charlottes wore.

"Well, whatever," Dorothy groused. "Let's get going before the cafe gets too crowded."

It was a short walk from the hotel to the cafe, but the six attracted curious glances from passers-by. The Charlottes were perfect twins, holding hands as they walked. One of the two held a parasol to shade them both from the early morning sun.

Beatrice and Dorothy followed, also holding hands. They must have looked like sisters, or aunt and niece.

Chise and Marilla, on the other hand, prompted whispers and mutters from persons on the street. A young Japanese girl and a young European woman, walking hand-in-hand appeared to be just a touch more scandalous than even Paris was willing to let slide.

Still, no one dared comment openly or stop them. It was too nice a day.

They got to the cafe and were promptly seated. Soon they each had a cup of tea and a plate of jam-filled crepes.

"Okay," Dorothy said leaning in close, "so what's the real deal? Ange, why do you and Charlotte look so much alike? _Were_ you twins separated at birth?"

"Hmm," said Charlotte. "I wonder."

"Well," said Charlotte, "if you must know, we had met some time before 'meeting' at the ball."

"I knew it!" Beatrice exclaimed.

Dorothy grinned at her.

"You did not."

Beatrice pouted.

"I did."

"In any case," Charlotte continued, "when we were children, we would play these pranks upon Charlotte's servants in her manor house."

"Yes," Charlotte confirmed, "and her servants were unable to tell us apart then."

Dorothy tapped her fingers against the table.

"So ... lemme see here ... Ange and me met in the orphanage."

"Yes, we did," Charlotte said.

"And we attended the Farm together," Charlotte said.

"So you two knew each other before the revolution."

"Yes," they said together.

"And Ange was forced to the streets because of the revolution."

"Yes," said Charlotte.

"And Princess," said Beatrice, "was raised as a Princess."

"Of course," said Charlotte.

"But if no one could tell who was who," Dorothy mused.

"Ah. You have it. Ange lived upon the streets, and Charlotte within the manor. When the revolution occurred, Charlotte was forced onto the streets, to live as Ange. Ange was forced in turn to learn to be the Princess."

Beatrice frowned.

"So you lied to me the entire time?"

"No," Charlotte replied. "By the time we met, I was Princess Charlotte. What one is at birth is not necessarily what one remains."

"Isn't that right Daisy," Charlotte asked.

Dorothy frowned.

"Let's not go there."

"Ah, but you would look sweet on a bicycle with two seats. Wouldn't she, Charlotte?"

"She would indeed, Charlotte."

Beatrice blushed heavily, but had to giggle.

"You two are intolerable," Dorothy grumbled.

Marilla leaned over close to Chise.

"Are they always like this?"

"No. In fact, they are quite calm today."

"This is calm?"

Chise nodded, grinning: "You have become part of a truly lively group!"

Marilla sat up straight, and looked around the table.

Spies.

A princess.

A clockwork girl.

A samurai.

And ... a laundress?

Marilla smiled, and laughed.

 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say thanks to my beta reader, Trans_Homura, for helping with the writing of this story. Thanks to her it is a different, and I hope better, story in its final form than it was in my earliest drafts.  
> Also, thanks to everyone who kudos and comments. It helps a lot to know someone reads and enjoys what I write.  
> Finally, a quick thanks to other writers of Princess Principal fanfic, here and on Fanfiction net and Tumblr. It's a great fandom with wonderful creative fans and I am glad to be a small part of it.


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